Masks
by Shahrezad1
Summary: "Well, we all fall in love but we disregard the danger. Though we share so many secrets there are some we never tell. Why were you so surprised that you never saw the Stranger? Did you ever let your lover see the stranger in yourself?" Last Chapter.
1. Masks

**Masks**

By Shahrezad1

Disclaimer: I love Incredibles (as well as a variety of other movies referred to), but not enough to own it. I'm poor, in school, and all my money goes into art supplies. Please don't sue.

Summary: _Here was a fellow friend. Someone who would rather watch the proceedings from the shadows, categorizing people and taking notes, than being stuck in the scene itself. Synlet pairing._

~/~/~

"_Well, we all fall in love,_

_But we disregard the danger._

_Though we share so many secrets,_

_There are some we never tell._

_Why were you so surprised,_

_That you never saw the stranger?_

_Did you ever let your lover,_

_See the stranger in yourself?"_

_-__**The Stranger**__,_

_Billy Joel_

~/~/~

"I am _so _sorry! Is there any way I can possib--hmm. Guess not. All right then," It was Violet's fourteenth time apologizing that night, and her most recent recipient had just walked off in a huff, fur muff liberally drenched in what she assumed was an alcoholic beverage.

To be honest, the woman and her over-stuffed accessory had been watching the Super all evening, and she was somewhat glad to see the lady go. The other guests, however, a mix of elderly businessmen, doddering old ladies, and wealthy heiresses, she couldn't help but feel some measure of sympathy for. They were truly innocent bystanders, caught in the path of her destruction.

And all because of a dress!

The young woman, chronologically twenty-one but looking hardly a day over seventeen, much to her dismay, didn't know why she'd allowed her mentor to talk her into coming, much less wearing the humiliating piece of artwork she was currently swathed in. It seemed that she had received more lewd looks in the past half hour than she had ever earned the rest of her short life.

It was truly a blessing her parents weren't present. Or quite a few men, both young and old, wouldn't be leaving the party with both of their legs intact.

Of course, even as she mentally ranted and raved, blushing furiously as eye after eye caught her gaze then dipped lower, another part of her was already smoothing over the anger.

After all, Edna really, truly was an inspired designer. She had an eye for what looked good on each individual, and when a muse struck was gifted in her inspiration. And besides, it was the least Violet could do in light of E's fundraiser. Each of her assistants was wearing one of her creations for the masked costume ball, rather than wearing their own costumes or going with monotonous neutral 'assistant' colors, and Vi was no different. With a cause so benevolent, being for the bereaved families of those Supers that lost their lives in the line of work (be it Syndrome, other villainous plots, or cape-based accidents), she could somehow just _barely_ justify the outfit she wore.

Repeating these words of truth within her mind like a mantra, the inexperienced socialite took up a glass of _she-had-no-idea-what-it-was_ from a passing waiter, one of the few people in the room wearing plain domino masks, and turned to hide herself within the folds of nearby curtains, a flash of red against the striking marble columns. It was there she found herself with a conundrum.

Someone had found her hiding spot before she had.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I'll just, um, be leaving now," _great, her fifteenth apology that night_, she thought to herself even as she pasted a smile upon her face.

The stranger said nothing, merely staring at her with an arm outstretched, as though about to speak. And in that moment she allowed herself to assess his figure, just as she had been taught to do with many-a villain.

Tall, broad-shouldered and darkly blonde, he had the presence of a linebacker. The jaw was long and round, breaking up the description that was slowly heading toward 'false perfection,' with a boyish bashfulness that _seemed_ genuine. And deep set, behind a hawkish nose and a wide mouth, were eyes of the clearest blue. Dressed in a tuxedo of fine quality, but not a name-brand cut and definitely not made to represent any sort of costume, he looked fashionably out of place. Like a reporter invited to an event, only to find themselves out of their element.

_He has a purpose for being at the fundraiser, and it isn't to show off._ That was the final conclusion her mind came to, but before she could delve further into that puzzle he acted.

By coloring clear to his hairline, then withdrawing his hand before pausing to pat down the starched shirt he wore. It took him intentionally clearing his throat before he would finally speak, and even then he had the hardest time looking her in the eye; instead finding her hair far more interesting.

"Um, no. I can go if you'd like. You probably need this more than I do."

"_Thanks_."

The single word, so sarcastic and so underlined with irony, stopped the man before he could take more than few steps forward, coming to a halt with a laugh.

"I didn't mean it that way. I just thought that…"

"That hiding was my intent?" up went the eyebrow, the hip cocked to the side and arms quickly folded in her mother's trademark, _'Go ahead and say something stupid. I dare you,'_ pose. A look that had quite the different effect when wearing what she was wearing.

He swallowed as he searched for a response, throat suddenly gone dry. Then, quick as a wink, the uncertainty switched over into a smirk, "well, you're either hiding, or you're _waiting_. And you don't seem the type to enjoy a scandal, Sweetheart."

"I'm _not_ your_ Sweetheart_!" was her indignant, hissed response. But all the ferocity in a woman scorned still couldn't play down the inevitable blush that suffused features pale as the moon.

He grinned as his question was answered, shaking his head as though with the intent to disperse his mirth, "and apparently not anyone else's either. How in the world did you get into that getup?"

Her face immediately screwed up into a look of dismayed effrontery, mixed with horrified curiosity.

"How can you _ask_ something like that? Do I even _know_ you? And why in the world do you even want to know?"

"Wicked curiosity," the boyish innocence in his face, lighting the sparkle in his eyes, connected them for a moment in time and against her own feelings of reservation, she felt her emotional barriers weaken slightly.

Here was a fellow friend; someone stuck in a place he didn't want to be, among a social class that he didn't belong to. Someone who would rather watch the proceedings from the shadows, categorizing people and taking notes, than being stuck in the scene itself.

Still, despite the connection she felt, she had to put up a token front.

"Wicked snooping is more like it," was Violet's eventual response, expression black with fury, "And to answer your question, it was Bad luck."

"I'd say it was good luck for _me_," thick arched brows wiggled over eyes of lightest blue, and she resisted the urge to swat the familiar-looking stranger.

"And for every other Suit in this room."

Giving into the cringe she could no longer suppress, Violet Parr finally looked down at herself for the second time that evening (the first being when she'd first looked in the mirror and nearly fainted), and saw what the room saw.

A svelte form encased from neck to ankle in the darkest, skin-tight violet fabric, topped by a loosely worn, Japanese-inspired pseudo-kimono. A translucent affair of chiffon which melted effortlessly into what could only be described as part cape, obi, and corset. And sewn all along the edges floated butterflies of silk and iridescent beading, meandering along her form like a caress, before floating to perch, in the form of delicately shaped flowers, within the voluminous chignon her hair had been pulled up into.

Her one piece of jewelry was a striking silver and amethyst necklace, E's last heirloom from a mother long lost, known only as _'The Eye,'_ lay nestled in the hollow of her throat.

Unlike the rest of the guests and patrons, Edna's own assistants included, she wore no mask, merely a swirl of shimmering makeup highlighting her eyes in voluminous lavender swirls. It left a distinct impression, and made her stand out within the crowd of gaudily painted beauties. Leaving each viewer with a half-understood knowledge of what E had been intending with her living masterpiece.

That Violet's mask wasn't the one she wore, but rather the one she _didn't_ wear.

A great inside joke for the designer, but one which caused no small amount of pain for the young protégée.

Seeing her bleak expression and sympathizing, if not understanding completely, the taller man finally took some sympathy on the young girl before him and bowed shortly, "sorry, that was low. Even for me."

"It's not your fault. I'm used to being a living doll."

Something half-clicked within his mind, and smiling he shook his head in rueful wonder, "you're one of E's assistants, aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" miserably, she looked up at the man and abruptly lost her breath, nearly missing his answer. For when the dark-haired Super had looked up into the man's face, she could have sworn that she saw something else. Red hair where the blonde was, and crisscrossing scars on what seemed to be unscarred flesh, face shape somehow just slightly off. Only the eyes remained the same, cool as a forest stream and lively with interest.

The moment was forgotten in the wave of his answer, "yes. And your 'Bad Luck' comment is explained now, since you probably drew the short end of the stick when it came to E's design fury. You look like a fairy tale illustration that got hit by a flyswatter, then smeared across a Playboy cover."

Her groan forced him to amend his statement, for his own well-being if nothing else, "although a hundred times more _covered_. Even if the fabric doesn't really help much with that illusion…"

"You can stop now. I think you've reached the six foot requirement for a burial plot," was the muttered growl, low and deep in contrast to her usual slight lisp, "I told her I wanted a modest outfit, and _this_ is what I get."

A rough wave of her hand caused the drink she'd been holding to go flying through the air, before landing in a spectacular ballet move that left shattered pieces of glass on the floor and left, what she assumed was, champagne splattering her companion's shoes. Yet two more casualties of _'The Dress,'_ as she liked to think of it.

He merely grimaced, rubbed his feet off against the curtain, then shrugged. Clothes were clothes. It wasn't the end of the world if he had sticky shoes for a while.

Yet another sign that he wasn't from the wealthy elite, she thought warmly to herself.

Then he continued, and the smile dropped into an eye-roll, "Well, it is quite," he paused, wiggling his eyebrows expressively as they fell upon the necklace, "_eye-catching_."

"Har har. Give the man a prize, he's a comedian," her only physical response was to drolly roll her own violet-blue orbs.

"And we're at a masquerade ball for that matter. What did she set you up to _be_, anyway? I mean, other than really, really, illegally hot?"

_Illegally hot._ Two words that in most contexts weren't used in reference to her, she noted from beneath the deep-set blush, "Edna's modern take on Madam Butterfly, I think. She even made me wear these ballet-like shoes. I've been tripping all night," rising to reveal the bemoaned slippers, she instead demonstrated the second half of her plight by way of falling directly into his arms, having slipped on the remains of her untouched drink, "Like _that_."

"I see," mirth lightened the rough edge to his voice as her stranger abruptly found his arms abruptly full of curvaceous woman. And as his arms settled around her waist like a steel vice, she couldn't help but note that his hands spanned the entire width of her back with ease. She was tiny, fragile, like a piece of ornamented glass in the shadow of his frame. So different than the hardened exterior she portrayed as _Invisigirl_, an active Super since the age of fifteen.

"You know what, how about we just…dance for a bit? Take your mind off of things," was his eventual, proffered peace offering. Uncomfortable and embarrassed, her skin prickling with awareness of the non-spider-sense kind, she nodded against his lapel.

"All right."

Their forms began swaying back and forth in a casual two-step, the tux-wearing shadow's voice lowering as she awkwardly gripped at his biceps for purchase of any kind, "what do you want to talk about?"

Her mouth opened, and a figurative pearl dropped out, "why aren't you wearing a mask?"

Of all the things she could have asked him, he obviously hadn't expected that one. Blue eyes widening momentarily, and wide mouth drawing open in surprise, she couldn't help but steal the smirk he had so ruthlessly controlled just minutes before.

"_What?_"

"Everyone else is wearing a mask. Why aren't you?"

The blonde-haired late-twenties-something businessman (?) avoided the question, instead parrying it with his own observation, "Well, you're not wearing a mask either."

"My lack of mask _is_ a mask. Madam Butterfly was a Geisha. They embody mystery, emotion, and particularly in her case, sorrow," the sarcastic brow arched up as she grinned impishly, looking more like Shakespeare's Puck than any Japanese derivative, "what's your excuse?"

This time the man partook of his own measure of smirk, looking younger now than he had their entire conversation, "for your information, I am Bond. _James Bond_. Master of disguise."

"Yet everyone seems to know who he is," was her quip, with an impish smile, "How does that work, considering he somehow always ends up getting the information he needs? Wouldn't they have already passed on his information to the other Evil-Doers? Especially when he goes off seducing the Villain's daughter, or making off with the plans for the nuclear bomb. Or the coordinates to the hostage location."

One large hand rose from her waist to tap his nose mischievously, smirk in full bloom and ready to move along to the harvest, "Every good Secret Agent has ninja skills. Don't you know that? And every one of them knows how to hack into security systems so that they can delete the information in them, for that matter."

Another toss of her eyes expressed her opinions on that subject, but he continued anyway, on a roll, "Plus, how many times does James Bond change what he looks like? Kinda hard to track a guy, when he changes faces every five minutes." his last point was made with the seriousness of someone laughing at an inside joke.

"Changing actors doesn't count as a skill."

"It sure counts for Sean Connery."

"For your information," a hand fell to her chest pointedly, and she tried and failed to ignore the fact that her stranger's eye dropped to follow it for a second, before returning to look into her eyes, "he went on to bigger and _better_ things! Leaving the 'ManSlut' persona behind."

"By becoming a dragon instead?" the skeptical tone in his voice was colored with laughter, and giving into the urge she echoed it's feeling with her own chuckle.

Meanwhile, across the room Edna Mode began to smile as her charge finally began loosening up for the first time that night. She couldn't help but feel that the girl was losing her life in the way of saving others'. So to hear Violet laugh was sweeter to the designer, than a positive magazine interview hot off the press.

Still, the man with her was an unfamiliar element. He seemed vaguely familiar, but in the way that all of her guests had. And he was dressed nicely, but not nice enough for one of her parties. Nor had he worn a mask, despite the invitation's emphasis on identities remaining secret.

Unless by not wearing one, he was making a statement, just as Violet was.

The smile became tempered with a thoughtful pout as she tried to place him, while the couple continued without any thought or note of this.

"Hey, he was an _awesome_ dragon. You have to give him that."

For some reason Violet felt more at ease around this complete stranger than around many others, her family and Edna included. He was just so brutally honest, even in his comments regarding her potential for having an rendezvous of some sort (as embarrassing as that had been). It was hard not to feel comfortable in the arms of someone whose only thought was that of humor.

Wicked humor, but humor nonetheless, she thought as we went out of his way to make some graphic references to Draco's particular eating habits.

The topic was thereby saved as she abruptly changed the subject. And then suddenly she was once again the one under the spotlight, the two of them swaying to the lightest of instrumental music.

"So, what made you go into the Fashion business? You don't exactly seem to me to be a 'Fashionista' of any kind."

"I _can't_ believe you just said that," she exclaimed in surprise.

And then she swatted him in the shoulder, her first real red flag shooting up in a single Super bound.

She was _flirting_. With a complete stranger! Touch was a big no-no for her, so to do something so simple as casual touch with someone was a momentous milestone. But it usually took months, if not years for her. Even she and Tony, her long-time ex-boyfriend and current long-distance-therapist, were still only at a hugging stage. How had she come so far in less than an hour? And with someone whose name she still didn't know?

Not realizing just what a profound moment had just passed, he wiggled his thick brows once more in response to her exclamation, "what, you mean 'Fashionista'?" Look, I can say it again…_Fashionista_. It gets better than that. Guacamole. Sombrero. _Intelligente_. Muy bonita," there the brow went again, raised pointedly as he slid her a roguish grin.

She couldn't _not_ respond to a look like that, "Stop it already, you've butchered the language enough."

"Then answer the question already, before I get on a roll."

"Fine, fine," plucking at the figure's lapel, she could feel herself coloring as she searched for words, "the other assistants…they're there for the environment, you know? They love the world of glamour, and all the perks and backhanded attention they get. And they love the fact that E even notes that they _exist_. And me…I..."

Several minutes of silence passed, and as it did she could feel herself almost slip away into her own thoughts. Thoughts observing the warmth of his breath against her neck, the lightest breeze making the delicate strands of her hair shift. And the realization that the back of his hands were lightly dusted with freckles, a strange occurrence for a man with none on his face.

Finally, the schoolboy within the man snapped, half-jokingly and half impatient, "You gonna take all night? 'Cause I could always take a nap until you're ready to talk…"

"I like design, all right!" A huff and a laugh broke free from her mouth, head shaking in humor at her own shy streak. After all, it wasn't that hard to say. Along with sentences like, _'I like the color Moss Green,'_ and _'My favorite season is Autumn.'_

"I like…coming up with the designs."

_Work the words around your mouth, Violet, then spit them out._ The mantra helped her focus on what needed to be said, what was felt, without her preternaturally self-conscious consciousness taking over, "And working out color combinations until…everything fits _just_ right. I love being placed with a conundrum that no one can find an answer to, and being able to save the day in the nick of time with an accessory that looks intentional, but is really a last-second save."

She was on a roll, and wasn't going to stop any time soon. Not that he looked like he intended to stop her, merely content to bask in the wave of true inspiration shining out before him, excitement coloring her cheeks, "I love the makeup, and the concept sketches, and seeing the finished project! And being able to see the models as real people, instead of stick figure mannequins, with hopes and worries of their own. I love being able to say, _'I created that. That was me,'_ and then releasing it out into the world like a butterfly from its cocoon. I love it all."

The stranger was silent a moment, then smiled, "I know _exactly_ how you feel."

Just as she was about to respond, the room abruptly fell into the black of darkest pitch, lights extinguished in one debilitating blow even as the once-decorative curtains fell in a wash of fabric to destroy the moonlight further, spreading from her hiding place like waves of midnight. While her Super side was immediately ready and raring for a fight, recognizing the swift darkness for the ploy it was, the woman couldn't help but angrily rebel. This was _their_ moment, together. She didn't want to leave, and neither could he. She could tell.

But all good things must come to an end.

"Well, I can honestly say that it's been lovely, but…that's my cue," his whispering voice low with humor and something more, she could feel her partner slowly come to a stop, then move to leave. Just as he began to withdraw, arms slipping from her waist, hers tightened on him. In the complete darkness, with nothing between them but sight itself, he hesitated, then huffed out a laugh against her neck.

"Ah, what the heck."

It seemed as though her last-minute act had been an act of unwritten permission, and so it was that his mouth fell upon hers fiercely, taking everything she had to give and more as he alternately caressed and lightly traced each lip; moving insistently until her own mouth was filled with heat, his rough three o'clock shadow leaving only the faintest scratch against her cheeks. Reluctantly, fervor slowly diffusing, he retreated only to be surprised.

Something had clicked within her mind as Violet kissed the man she had never met before, nor was ever to meet again. The line between Vi and _Invisigirl_ had always been razor-thin, but it was only in that strange embrace that things fell into place, and the two women became one. Not Vi, daughter to Bob and Helen Parr. Nor _Invisigirl_, secondary team member in a family of Supers. But fully Violet, made of joy and sweetness and fierce emotion. Gripping his face in hers, she released her own barrage of feeling, back arching as the suddenly confident wallflower wrapped her arms around his back and neck, burrowing slender hands into his thick wave of hair. This sudden change in events spanned several long minutes, until both were huffing for breath as sparks appeared behind their eyes.

"Wow," a chuckle was in the stranger's voice as they finally came up for air, thumb absently rubbing her back of its own volition. And burying her face into the stiff white collar of his dress shirt, she couldn't help the smile that imprinted itself on her own face.

"I guess…it's my cue to go, as well," was her belated, mumbled response, and immediately she could feel the rumble of laughter go off in his chest.

"Yeah. Me too. Farewell, Madam Butterfly. _Sweetheart._"

"You too, Bond. _James Bond._"

A hand touched her hair for just a second, before lighting almost hesitantly from it in an unconscious echo of the butterflies surrounding her, "I guess I should dress up like him more often. He always gets the girl."

A swat at her companion met only air, and absently rubbing bruised lips she couldn't help but smile as she donned her Supersuit behind a dropped curtain. It wasn't until an hour later, lights back on and everything restored to semi-permanent order via the help of Invisigirl, that she realized something was missing from the outfit Edna had created for her.

The amethyst eye necklace. While she had been busy enjoying her first kiss, the _cad_ had stolen the rare artifact.

And strangely enough, although her emotions had been at an all-time high, her mind had been aware enough to note that the skin beneath her hands hadn't been the smooth visage of an eligible bachelor, there to help Edna's cause. Rather, it had been curiously puckered with light scars.

He'd been wearing a mask after all.

~/~/~

AN: Yeah, bit of a side-pairing for me, since I usually ship the traditional ones. Still, Synlet's caught my fancy despite my own intellectual arguments, and who am I to say no to inspiration? Especially where Billy Joel is involved. (Youtube the song. Seriously.)

In any case, this was inspired by the Tim Burton's _Batman_ film, with appearances by both Catwoman and the Penguin. There was a particular scene I was inspired by, in which Bruce and Selina are the only unmasked guests in a masquerade party. Revealing the fact that maybe the masks they wear aren't the obvious ones.

Additionally, my view on Syndrome is that he really is quite brilliant, and I wanted to play upon that fact by having Violet understand in her own way. That sense of more-than-slight fanaticism, and a type of inspiration that drives your very being to create. I imagine Buddy feels that way quite often, when he gets ideas for inventions. And I'm guessing it's fairly similar to what we, as artists and authors, feel every time we sit down to a blank piece of paper.


	2. Pretense

**Masks**

By Shahrezad1

Disclaimer: I love _The Incredibles_ (as well as a variety of other movies referred to), but not enough to own it. I'm poor, in school, and all my money goes to art supplies. Please don't sue.

Part 2 Summary: _The irony was thick enough to saw through. And it was this irony that broke through the spell of his voice washing over hers, sarcastic and intelligent and full of memory. Like Little Red Riding Hood turning from the Wolf's charismatic approach, in order to return to the safety of her grandmother's side._

Created due to popular demand. :D The following chapters (two and on) can be read as a continuation of chapter one. Or, if you're more partial to Masks as being the one-shot it was meant to be, please disregard the following additions.

In either case, please enjoy. =^__^=

~/~/~

Chapter 2: Pretense

"_Well, I'm not paralyzed,_

_But I seem to be struck by you._

_I wanna make you move,_

_Because you're standing still._

_If your body matches,_

_What your eyes can do,_

_You'll probably move right through,_

_Me, on my way to you."_

_-Paralyzer, Finger Eleven_

It was happening again.

Violet clutched the seat beneath her with both clawed hands, as her world rocked at the ferocity of emotion pounding against her skull.

Typically the impressions were harmless. A snatch of color here, a chemical equation she didn't understand appearing there. And then there were the Big Ones. Moments so excruciatingly painful it felt as though her nails were being ripped off one by one, only to be used to scrape out her eyeballs.

The impressions were stronger then, the colors brighter, but the sea of pain jarred so much that she was left with fragmented half-dreams, half-nightmares. Nothing she could cement down, except to say that somewhere out there existed a being in such pain that all else failed in comparison. A pain that begged for release through their silent, always bittersweet, connection.

Today was just another day in the long months she'd become accustomed to. Sitting at the work bench in her private quarters, fighting the urge to collapse to the floor and writhe in excruciating, skin-piercing anguish, in favor of silent, lung-collapsing sobs. Tears streaming down her cheeks until they were chapped and stinging with the raw onslaught of salt water.

Still, the dark haired young woman remained stoically silent, bearing the horrific assault of emotion in the name of an unknown other.

Once some semblance of calm was found, she moved immediately into a position of comfort within the center of the large rug that enveloped her room, ignoring the lingering pain pulsing through her temples as she tried to _just breathe_.

It was what fought back the lingering pain and allowed her to function. Tucking the feelings into a small compartment in her mind; a cabinet carved of dark, elegant wood in the effort to somehow console the pain it held. Just as many of the others held the pains she'd felt in the past.

Only once everything was in place could she release her sigh of relief. Relief that the emotional wave had hit her in the privacy of her room, rather than publicly. Relief that she had the feelings out of the way, and not just under the surface where they could emerge and disturb the life and career she'd built.

Then, serenity in place, Violet got ready.

All of E's assistants had private quarters within the main grounds, so that they could be on-hand should she need them at a moment's notice. Violet more so, due to her invaluable position as a Super. To Edna Mode, such skills meant two things. First, that she could test various accessories on a ready and semi-willing victim. And secondly, that she could rave about her previous Supersuit designs without fear of being forced to censor information.

This preferential treatment led to an increased ability to sneak out, should an emergency occur, yet created an awkward, distant, and even sometimes resentful relationship with her peers.

It was a lonely existence, really, but one she couldn't help.

In this instance she was thankful for it, however, as it allowed her to have peace as she readied herself mentally and physically.

When she finally left her private room it was as though nothing had happened. No pain, no attack.

Long black slacks and a flowing swoop-necked blouse, complete with a corset-like vest at her midsection, hid the finger-marks on her thighs and waist, from when she'd unthinkingly moved her hands to clutch them. The fluid sleeves masked old bruises from times when the attacks had occurred in a public place, and from 'work'-related damage, with the clever use of shadow.

And if that wasn't enough, she'd put up her own personal version of a mask. A noncommittal smile to hide the fact that her inner cheek was lightly inflamed, having been caught in the fray. Makeup to blend the dark around her eyes, and casual slippers to soften the ensemble.

From there all it took was her grabbing her bag and she was ready for the night ahead.

It was one of those few evenings in which E allowed her and the other assistants time off, and Violet was determined to enjoy it to the fullest. Regardless of hero-work, mysterious pain, and _normal_ work itself, she wouldn't allow her responsibilities to destroy what was left of her _actual_ life and friends.

Heaven knew why they still stuck by her at this point. There'd been more than enough instances of her 'exiting stage left' in the face of an emergency for them to have tired of her inconsistency. That and the fact that she wasn't the most open individual, despite efforts to get over her previous surliness, made for an awkward relationship between them sometimes. Yet they still stayed around, despite everything.

Maybe they saw something she didn't?

It was possible. She'd been invisible for such a long time she sometimes forgot who she really was. _Super. Daughter. Assistant._ What she would give to be seen as only herself, no strings attached. There had only been one person that had ever treated her like a real person, an adult woman, but he--

Blushing at the train of thought her mind had led her to, Violet snapped her door shut, ready for a night out on the town. She had a promise to keep, after all, and it didn't do well to dwell on something so inconsequential that she should have forgotten all about it by now.

If it would only _stay in the past_, like it was supposed to!

But it was hard to push away something like that, when it was so…surprising. Life-altering, even. She could even stretch the truth enough to say that it had been wonderful.

_Perfect._

Not that she had much to go by. It _had_ been her first kiss, and presumably her last, if her love life continued down the path it had been following the last several months. Of course, if the man in question wished to prove her wrong then who was she to argue…not that she expected to see, much less kiss or even _recognize_ him again…

It didn't do well to dwell on the past.

Sighing, Violet left. But not before snatching up an apple from the community kitchen they shared. Her increased healing ability demanded it, already hard at work to heal the damage that had been created by the vision. And knowing what kind of adventures she was prone to getting into, she might need the energy before the night was done.

~/~/~

Syndrome collapsed against his console, hands buried in sweaty, tangled hair as he gasped for breath amid shards of his latest invention.

It had happened again. This time it had been a short in his wiring that had been at fault. The single crossed line causing his heart to nearly fail as each of the electrical connections buried deep within his flesh had hiccupped, sending spasms of power through his nerve endings and nearly tearing his skull off from the pain.

You'd have thought he would be accustomed to the pain by now. The past few years had been full of it, as he'd slowly pulled himself together from the wreckage of his last fiasco. It was just another thing he could hold against Mr. Incredible, like a badge of honor. And if anything, it made his old contacts more fearful of him, rather than less.

After all, when he dropped his mask they couldn't help but recoil at the Phantom of the Opera-like disfigurement he'd suffered. Machinery to replace the flesh he'd lost, scarring along his face like the claws of a gargoyle tearing through layers of skin. He hadn't lost any whole limbs, but the individual pieces that had had to be worked together with metal support were a constant reminder of the pains he'd been dealt with. All that he'd suffered because of the nemesis he'd chosen for himself.

And then when something went faulty, or his nerves became overloaded with information, then he knew what it was to experience a living death.

Taking stock of himself piece by piece, however, he had to admit that something was off. Different. And it had been for several months. At first he hadn't even noticed the change, but it was becoming more obvious with time. Even in this, one of his worst episodes in several weeks, hadn't born the intensity he was accustomed to.

Some of his pain was being siphoned off and stored, a healing balm left in its place. The mental view of a calm room in mellow cream his one sanctuary, as his insides were fried by an internal current.

Sometimes it was just a snatch of color, or the dim feeling of exhaustion and relief. It was during his attacks that the '_something'_ saved him.

He didn't have time for that now, though, he had an appointment to keep.

One of his contacts was to deliver some vitally needed information. Namely, plans from the University regarding some sort of combustion engine they were creating, that could possibly solve his current electrical difficulties. Unfortunately, the meeting place was some sort of artistic event downtown.

It was the perfect ploy, his associate had explained eagerly through false tones of nasal French. No one would be expecting for such information to be passed on through a civilized gathering of artistic minds.

Frankly, Syndrome wanted to shove his 'perfect ploy' somewhere where the sun didn't shine. The last time he'd attended some hoity toity affair he'd nearly lost his leg in the chaotic fray his ploy had created, having tripped on an oh-so-elegant guest. And on top of that, he'd---.

Focus. _Focus_. Breathing slowly through a reconstructed nose, broken numerous times and in painfully numerous ways, he fought against the impulse to remember. Fighting against the image of his hand buried in fine, dark hair, shining in the echo of moonlight coming from the long balcony. Lips soft and unresisting beneath his own, not knowing about the monster he really was…

Shuddering slightly in the echo of pain and something else he couldn't identify, the villain made his way toward his closet.

He had an art show to attend.

~/~/~

Violet looked at her current partner for the evening, and couldn't help but sigh. Partially in humor, and partly in melancholy.

Sure, Tony was great company. He was funny, vivacious, and could leave you in stitches within a minute's time. But going to an event with your 'Ex' just so that you could stave off stalkers wasn't exactly the best idea in the world.

Especially when he was all the way across the room and currently comforting her best friend. Once things typically reached that point in the evening, his purpose as Stalker Repellent became a moot one.

Not that she was angry about it. Kari needed all the comfort she could get. Especially in light of the scathing critique she'd just received from one of the leading art columnists in the city. And Violet was nothing if not capable of protecting herself from unwanted male attention, be it masked or no.

And, dare she say it, the two of them were just so _cute_ together. Like a Hallmark greeting card, only sappier. Or a Meg Ryan chick flick, where you knew that by the end everything would be resolved and the "best friend" guy would get the girl, no matter the cost.

Even if she, Violet, was no longer "that girl," anymore.

Smiling somewhat ruefully at that ship which had long-since sailed, Vi allowed herself to float away from the oblivious almost-couple. And given the chance to relax for the first time in several weeks, the Super allowed her heart rate to drop and breathing to even out as she began actively seeking out design inspiration.

Room by room the dark-haired ingénue wandered, in search of inspiration in the face of artistic creation.

First there'd been an interpretive statue of the god Ares, bringing to mind an idea for an Amazonian outfit, complete with armor. But that had been quickly discarded as un-sketch-worthy upon the realization of its resemblance to a cheesy opera outfit. This led her on to a painting based upon an old Egyptian papyrus, which inspired a few more semi-decent golden sheath-dress designs, complete with traditional African turban.

Aztec, turquoise-encrusted gold gave her a hint of an idea at a two-part blouse and knee-length skirt combination, the top a brilliant aqua and the bottom a slightly more subdued earthy green, broken up by a beaded corset belt and a royal purple half-jacket. Then, on a roll she worked out a French-inspired high-neck, black tulle gown, cut in a design similar to a ballerina, and complete with high-contrast red-ribboned ballet flats.

This was followed by one last creation, in the form of a long-sleeved, full-bodied over-shift, colorful as the shades of the rainbow and complete with floor-length gypsy skirt and pastel yellow lace Muslim head-cover.

She was just into the preliminary designs for 1920's-based feminized Mafia outfit when abrupt words spoken loudly next to her ear, and a presence directly crossing into her personal space bubble, sent her reeling. Inspiration and imagination startled into fluttering away, like so many butterflies, till all she was left with were memories and dust.

"So, you come here often?" the sly voice made its way across her senses with all the sleeze of a well-oiled car salesman.

The dark-haired woman made a silent vow to never come out into public again until she was at least eighty. Hopefully by then creepy types would let up on following her around, at the very least. It was bad enough dealing with the fanboys when in her Super persona, much less the leaches that followed her in the Industry. Knowing her luck, he was probably one of E's hangers-on; a guy that knew an easy mark by sight, and sought her as a means for an end.

_What was it with guys? Honestly, just because a girl's by herself doesn't mean that she's asking to be picked up by every Tom, Dick, and Harry._ It was in this fervor of emotion that the design student responded to the new irritant's remark.

"Now's not really the time, okay. I mean, all I want is some peace and quiet, to think to myself, and it's like I've set off a glowing neon sign that says, 'Go ahead, bother me.' It's a bit…harsh of me, true, to be so blunt. And you probably _are_ a nice guy, really _really_ deep down. But, look, if you're trying to pick me up then you should know that I'm not really here looking for a relationship. I'm here for the art," inspiration lit her mind for a time as her eye fell on the sketchbook she'd brought, "you could even say that I'm doing _research_. And to tell the truth, I really _did_ come with someone tonight."

One side of her, the Super side, was internally wincing at her actions, as mild as they were compared to other rejection speeches. She was honestly using the unfortunate man as her scapegoat 'victim of anger', when he was just trying to help; sympathizing with her predicament. The same way she did when she pulled on the black and lavender spandex, signature 'I' centered in the middle of her chest.

The secondary, more dominant side (she was in civilian clothes, after all) rallied for the opposite. Cheering the young Assistant on with streamers and gigantic foam football finger, as Violet allowed herself to get angry one of the few times in her life.

Just as she was about to break into the tirade of the century, however, she made the mistake of looking up past a goateed chin and smooth olive skin, into the deepest eyes she'd ever seen.

Clear, piercing eyes. That seemed _far_ more knowing than they should be, even with her sudden explosion of emotion. Blue eyes. _Familiar_ blue eyes, placed in the face of a Latin-American man, roughly placed in his mid-twenties.

Bearing a very smug smile, currently aimed in her direction.

"Hi."

"_James_," the word was torn from lips that suddenly seemed hot, affected by the heat rushing to her cheeks.

Holographic features settled into an expression of bemused irony, hands on hips as he just _looked_ at her. All the while smiling devilishly through the mask disguising his features.

"Butterfly. It's good to see you again, too."

"I…um. Likewise. But...you're here to steal something, aren't you?"

The delightfully boyish blue eyes shot up, glittering mischievously, "…how'd you guess?"

Pointing at her neck only succeeded in earning her a lecherous smile. Which subtly altered as he kept looking at her, brow furrowed as he tilted his head in question, "You seem…different."

"Not trapped in a multi-layer torture device, you mean?"

"That, too," he smiled in memory, "but what a device…"

"Glad you enjoyed it," the irony was thick enough to saw through. And it was this irony that broke through the spell of his voice washing over hers, sarcastic and intelligent and full of memory.

Like Little Red Riding Hood turning from the Wolf's charismatic approach, in order to return to the safety of her grandmother's side.

"I've got to go. Just…don't steal anything important, okay? I know most of the artists whose work is displayed, and I don't think I could take it if something went missing."

_Weak, weak response!_ The Super within roared. He was a thief, a villain, and she was supposed to pound him into the cement; cuff him and leave the Cad for the police to find.

But, somehow, faced with the man that had haunted her dreams for so long, she collapsed under the pressure of the situation. Not able to do more than warn him, and weakly at that.

But what could she do? She wasn't the hero right now, but the civilian. To do anything meant revealing both sides of her identity, a dilemma Violet had never had to deal with before.

So what better way to deal with the situation than run?

A toss of her head and she had left him in the dust, long legs giving her a clear head-start over his stockier ones, the Super moving away with the deftness of a gazelle. Over one shoulder Violet could make out a strong look of shock, as though out of all the things he'd expected her to do, walking away wasn't one of them.

Vi called upon memory to return back to the original hallway, beside the first statue of the Roman god of war. Only to literally jump as a hand fell upon her shoulder, thumb resting against the pulse at her neck.

"Look, just give me a chance. I mean, just because I committed petty thievery doesn't mean that I'm a villain or anything."

_Interesting choice of words_.

Vi frowned, brushing away both hand and his words in a single move.

"Did you really come here with someone, by the way?"

"Yes," deadpan, she answered, scowling. Frantically ignoring the buzz running through the topmost layer of her skin, as though merely being in his presence set her form into a state of hypersensitivity. And she still had no idea what he even _looked_ like.

…_his mouth fell upon hers fiercely, taking everything she had to give and more as he alternately caressed and lightly traced each lip; moving insistently until her own mouth was filled with heat, his rough three o'clock shadow leaving only the faintest scratch against her cheeks..._

Her skin bleached of color, then abruptly became red as a tomato.

"You're not lying for the sake of getting rid of me?" an inquisitive brow rose archly, echoed by the slightest glitch in the electronic shield, not noticing her change one whit.

"No, I'm not lying," a deep blush colored pale features, "I did come with someone. My height," a hand came up to gesture, "brown hair, black button-up."

"Is it _that_ guy, 'cause it seems like he's somewhat…_distracted_ right now," the droll, dry humor broke through the assistant's line of excuses, and she couldn't help but follow her antagonist's pointing finger.

"What are you…_ah, dangit_."

Tony had Kari in his arms. She knew logically that he was probably comforting her in the face of disappointment. And to be truthful, it was something she mentally cheered over, having tried to set them up for months. But Violet knew without having to look at her admirer that the image would probably come off as something entirely different.

Her bluff had been called.

The taller man remarked, almost pityingly, something that made Vi's blood freeze in her veins, the burly, olive-toned arms crossing over a barrel of a chest.

"Hmph. No wonder you aren't _keen_ for new admirers. It looks like you've already got more than enough 'Jerk' on your plate already. Do you date single-digit IQ's often?"

"For your information, he's got a Masters in Engineering, and the only jerk I'm stuck dealing with is _you_. _Good day_, Sir," Making as though to storm away, she was stopped by a calloused hand on her wrist.

What followed was an apology she didn't care to know about, much less hear, "look, I…I apologize, _alright_," he said the word hesitantly, as though it was foreign to his vocabulary, even going so far as to grimace while speaking, "I was just spouting my mouth off. I didn't mean to--."

"Sound like a jealous ex-boyfriend?" she intoned without inflection, expression flat.

"What?!" round blue eyes widened, his head jerking back in surprise, and she had a vague mental image of thick hair ruffling slightly from the movement. An image that Vi blinked away with a concentrated effort.

It was disconcerting to face a man she'd kissed, but whose appearance changed on a whim.

"I don't know what you're tal--."

"Can I have my wrist back, please?"

"..."

The act of reaching out to her had been almost automatic, he hadn't even noticed himself doing it. So when his eyes fell to the grip that still remained on her tiny hand, it was with surprise. And in that same instant she looked as well.

Freckled, pale hands, with a slight pink undertone, unlike the deep olive tone of his face and neck, surrounded her bony wrist, a light dusting of pale hair contrasting the bushy black brows and dark complexion.

This, she wasn't surprised to find, was the same as she remembered.

They were the hands of a man who had stolen from her once before, and would likely do so again.

As his hand once again gripped hers, she couldn't help but continue trying for freedom. In the process, Violet's eyes focused more firmly on his offending limb.

The thief was bruised all along his forearm. And in the same unsteady track as the ones she bore, the flowering bruises nearly the same color and shape as hers.

Without conscious thought, training flipped the offending limb off of her with an easy twist, but her defense did nothing to alter the look on his face. He hadn't noticed Violet's horrified recognition. Instead, the masked thief was preoccupied with something else, on his side.

"Did someone do this to you?" blue eyes darkened dangerously, their light color suddenly deadly as ice in the face of her potential hurt. And behind them, came the unspoken promise: _If they did, I'll kill them for you. Just say the word._

Despite all self-restraint, the assistant couldn't help the shiver that shook her form as the situation suddenly took a one hundred and eighty-degree turn, "what are you talking about?"

"Did _he_ do this to you?"

This time the eyes flickered across the room to Tony, where he was standing with Kari, remarking on a painting she'd created of a cherubic-looking ball of flame. While her high school friend had been wiped of any memory of the traumatic events from years' past, there were still impressions that couldn't help but rise to the surface and express themselves in the blonde's paintings. One of those was Jackson's first transformation. Kari called it, _'Devils on Mozart.'_

Her navy eyes fell once more to her wrist, and abrupt realization froze Violet in her place.

_Her _bruises. From her 'attacks,' as well as due to her work as a Super. Just as she had seen his, he had seen the ones she wore like faded medals. And what was worse, 'James' thought _Tony_ was responsible for the marks that littered her arm like scattered dominoes.

"_No!_ No. He didn't do anything. _No one_ did anything. I…well, it just comes with the job territory." _Drat_, she immediately tried to bite the words back, to no avail. _That was a little too close to home. _She was trying to hide both her identities, not hand them to him on a platter.

He didn't notice her slip, still lost in his own protective fervor, "being a fashion designer's assistant somehow translating into bruises--Somehow I don't believe you."

"You don't _have_ to believe me. It doesn't change the fact that it's any less true," again the wall shot up, irritation sparking behind her eyes as defensiveness switched on. The surprise in his own features dimmed it slightly, but not overmuch. And while she couldn't help mentally cringing at her systematic destruction of _another_ possible relationship, it was as inevitable as springtime. She always reacted like this when her cover was blown. Defensive. Aggressive. Like a Super dealing with a Villain, instead of a woman dealing with another person.

_He was just being protective_, the civilian cried.

_But I don't need to be protected_, was the hero's retort.

An internal debate wasn't what she needed right now, though, as the man readied himself to pummel her ex-boyfriend. She needed a distraction, and quickly.

"He didn't do it, okay? I just brought him as my Stalker Repellent."

"_What?_"`

~/~/~

Buddy hadn't meant to get so distracted.

He'd reached the art show well before their meeting time, prepared with both an electronic chit to transfer funds from his account to the man's, as well as a new disguise to hide his features. The last one had gotten plastered across the Police Department's walls, a reward on his head, and he had been quick to switch it out for a new identity.

Still, the holographic projection couldn't completely disguise the pain he was feeling. From the moment of walking in, he'd had three people stop and check if he was doing okay, an attendant included. Waving off the last one, he'd finally decided that taking a break was a good idea, when he saw _her_.

Or at least, what he thought was her.

_Butterfly_. The girl from the Fundraiser Jewel Heist.

That gem had been converted into a laser, part of the inner workings of his mechanical heart, but despite the cause he couldn't help but feel guilty as he had worked the piece into his inner workings.

Which was _wrong_. Syndrome _never_ felt guilty. Not anymore.

Leading him right back to his current problem. Her. The girl that kept popping into his mind more often than he would have liked.

Still, he couldn't be sure. The hair was shorter, and the pose more upright instead of shying away. But then again, what if she _was_ her. He had to check, at the very least. And if nothing, it would make the time pass by more quickly.

Following discreetly behind, he watched as she passed by statues, then paintings and photography.

And suddenly, without warning, Buddy knew this was his chance. Before someone else came along. He hated to blow his cover, but…

He just had to _know_.

…something had snapped within him, the moment Buddy had seen her back, and familiar dark hair.

Still, the bitter, twisted side of him sneered at the likelihood of it really being her, much less the chance of the girl giving him the time of day. There he was, chasing after some _broad_ when he should be meeting up with his contact.

But shoving that mental voice away, he'd moved silently to her side, masking the limp with forced smooth movement. Only to receive a face-full of the most beautiful anger he'd ever seen. It _was_ her. _Butterfly_. But she was…different. Less hesitant. And then when he'd stopped her, apologized, he'd seen the marks on her arms, and…

He'd been angry.

Why? Buddy had killed more Supers an he could count on both hands and feet, had nearly let his traitorous girlfriend's life hang in the balance, and it was _bruises_ that infuriated him?!

What was freaking _wrong_ with him? He shouldn't be thinking this way, or acting this way. But when he'd seen the marks on her it had been like someone had attacked himself, or ripped a part out of his circuitry heart. And then, when he'd been more angry than could be siphoned away, energy and adrenaline starting to overload his conduits, Butterfly had faced him dead on and…

Navy blue eyes stared up into his own, and beneath a thin layer of foundation he could see circles under her eyes, whether placed there by nature or lack of sleep. He was so focused on them, that he almost didn't hear her continue, soothingly.

"He didn't do it, okay? I just brought him as my Stalker Repellent."

_Stalker Repellent?_

"_What?_"

"I didn't mean to be harsh with you off like I was. It's just that lately…" trailing off, the maiden smiled abruptly, "_Anyway_. It _is_ good seeing you again, James. Even if I've come to connect your presence with mischief."

"…_what?_" Still reeling, the words he wished to say halted mid-lane, suddenly stuck in verbal traffic, mouth dropping open even as his brows furrowed.

"I really do have to go, though. I promised E that I would be back to go over some…work with her."

The shy, discreet gaze dropped to the floor, her hands, anything but the face he bore like a visor against the world.

And then his mouth opened, dropping words like pebbles into a raging river.

"Go out with me."

"What?!"

Dark eyes flew open in surprise, a delicate mouth dropping. Unconsciously, his view followed, and without thought his heart continued speaking for him.

"Go out with me. Just once. I know that you don't know me, and I don't know you. All I'm asking for is…once."

"I…I _can't_."

Somehow, the manner rather than the words she said brought his ire up, just slightly. As though some force was tearing her in two; taking away her ability to chose. He was _so_ tired of women, and their double-natures, "Why not? I mean, it's not like it's a marriage proposal, or anything. A little music, maybe some candlelight, a little bit of Italian--."

"It'd be a conflict of interest. I'd like to, really, but I can't."

_"I'd like to, really, but I can't." _Familiar words that echoed from the memory of his childhood; a different tone, a different time, but hauntingly familiar.

That shot his eyebrows up, underneath the holographic mask. Still, the facial echo moved a half second later, a glitch he reminded himself to remedy later, "_'Conflict of interest'? _What are you talking about?"

"It's just that…" she fiddled with her fingers, wringing them just out of his line of sight, "you're a thief. A criminal. And I…never mind."

An inkling of thought glittered on the horizon of Syndrome's mind, but it remained formless, still, as confusion overset it, "What? What were you about to say? Don't leave me hanging here. If you're going to turn me down, it might as well be for a good reason."

Something that would be worth the mess he was going to make of his laboratory later, in a fit of inevitable rage. He hadn't been rejected in _years._ Then again, he hadn't gotten up the courage to _date_ in years. Not since his last relationship had ended on such a traitorous note.

"I…"

"I'm an adult, I can take it."

"…"

Her openmouthed silence brought on both irritation and a hint of humor, as the genius was reminded of their _last_ conversation, a bumbling chaos of awkward conversation and newfound feeling. The way she'd reacted, it had probably been her first kiss, even. It was this memory that brought a smile to his face as he next spoke, teasing tones filling his words in ways they hadn't for a long time. Not since Mirage…"You do this a lot in conversations, don't you? Get a guy brimming with curiosity, then leaving him dry."

Frustration finally burst the bubble of worry surrounding her, and the girl-_Butterfly_-growled before bursting out, "what if we've _fought_ before!"

A pause, then…

_No._

Shock cut his words off. And staring down at the miniscule, rebellious figure proudly glaring up into his features, hands on hips, the villain felt his heart stop.

_No, no, no_…Karma _couldn't_ be that cruel.

He took in her stance, the wiry muscle her semi-casual dress hinted at, and the shadowing under her eyes, as though a heavy weight rested there on a fairly frequent basis. The pose she took seemed relaxed, but behind it ran years of professional training, ready to spring at him in a moments notice.

And then there were the mysterious bruises. In the course of their argument part of her sleeve had fallen away, revealing a longer span of bruises than he had first seen and what seemed to be a whitened scar that ran up her forearm before disappearing. What he had thought were the signs of abuse were really the result of something more dire.

"…_it just comes with the job territory."_

Yes, yes Karma _could_ be, apparently.

He swore. A single, toneless word that conveyed more in its singularity than anything else he could have said.

And the girl's face dropped like a stone. Cold and emotionless in the face of his horror.

"I guess customary battle strategies suggest an 'obligatory fight scene,' if your reaction is any indication," bitter irony colored her words as she cocked her hip and folded her arms across her chest. It was a move so characteristic of traditional female Supers that he could have cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. In fact, it was the same pose Butterfly had pulled at the fundraiser, sarcasm seeping through her words. Only at the time it had had the exact opposite effect on him.

Instead of being irritated, he'd been instantly attracted. It was as it had always been, the hint of power underneath being the first to unconsciously call out to him. Buddy's single curse and blessing was his attraction to power. One which, without fail, always led him right back to where everything began: with the Supers.

"There's a vacant warehouse a street over. Let's not get anyone else involved in this if we have to."

'Butterfly' was shut off from him in that instant, and something else took over without pause. That alter-ego personality which always seemed to be waiting in the wings, he rightly assumed. Ready to do things the normal self wouldn't dare to take on. Wouldn't dare to stoop to, for morality's sake. Ready to shut away all emotions and feelings, so that one could face the fight with balance, then mourn later.

For a lost friend, a lost love, a lost opportunity.

Well, two could play that game. And he wouldn't allow another Super to get in the way of his happiness again. He wouldn't allow the _Super_ to shut _Butterfly_ out.

If there was anything he was good at, it was manipulation.

~/~/~

AN: This is dedicated to a few friends. Hatterlet, namely, followed by OldeTownCoffee, and WarriorOji. And then my friend of the many names, Daniisreallywierd/PegasusCrystal. For keeping the spirit of Synlet alive and kicking. ^__^ And HannahKraft for putting up with my silly obsessions, when I should really be finishing other things.

Just an fyi, I rewrote this about three times before I was satisfied. And the chapter is actually being posted as two installments. XD It got too looooong! Also, this is unbetaed.


	3. Equality

**Masks**

By Shahrezad1

Disclaimer: If I owned the Incredibles...my new computer wouldn't have been such a painful expense. ^__^;; Nor my textbooks, or tuition, or rent…*sighs*

Summary: And while their fight had been deadly in its seriousness, it had just been another test. To find out if they were able to stand up to each other's onslaught, neither giving in. To see if they were on a equal footing, only to be delighted upon discovering a perfect, exhilarating match.

~/~/~

Chapter 3: Equality

"_Rising up, back on the street._

_Did my time, _

_Took my chances._

_Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet._

_Just a man and his will to survive._

_So many times it happens too fast,_

_You trade your passion for glory._

_Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past,_

_You must fight just keep them alive._

_It's the eye of the Tiger,_

_it's the thrill of the fight._

_Rising up to challenge of our rivals._

_And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night,_

_And he's watching us all with the Eye of the Tiger."_

_--__**Eye of the Tiger**_

~/~/~

If there was anything he was good at, it was manipulation.

Pretending to ponder her command, Buddy pursed his lips, tapped his chin, then struck a thoughtful pose. When he finally had her (scowling) attention he stated simply, "you know what? As much as I usually enjoy a good Villain vs Super one-on-one spar, I'm going to have to decline."

Face falling slack, navy eyes wide as the kid was clearly taken aback, Butterfly's mouth opened and closed like a fish for several seconds before finding eventual coherency.

"What? But we oppose one another…we _have_ to."

"Who says? The NSA Official Rulebook, Chapter five, page thirty-seven? Does a book control your life, Butterfly?"

"No," was her immediate, almost reluctant, response, scowling irritably.

"Does the National Super Association control _you?_" was then Syndrome's wicked follow-up.

"Now wait just a--!"

The redhead bent at the waist until their eyes were level, his blue ones half-lidded even beneath the holographic barrier, "after all, I know that the NSA has control over the actions of the nation's Supers, but do they own, say, Butterfly herself? Or James, for example? All I see is a man and a woman discussing why they shouldn't fight. No extremist personalities there, I'd wager."

Her breath had hitched at his sudden proximity, but it settled as the girl again focused on his words. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing, considering the situation, but Buddy found himself missing her flustered state, regardless.

"This is all just a game to you, isn't it? You're just attempting to catch me off guard; to push as many buttons as you possibly can before I blow up."

"Chapter Seven: Negotiations. But no, not all of it's a game. That I can promise," nodding respectfully in honor of her quite-valid question, however, Syndrome added point-blank, "I've gotta admit, though, the prize for _this_ game is more than a little tempting."

Paling to an unhealthy white, then flushing a painful red, Butterfly gaped wordlessly. Meanwhile Buddy merely shrugged, confident, arrogant smile showing through his disguise.

"Being a Superhero _isn't_ something trivial or frivolous, James."

The criminal's eyebrows rose mock-thoughtfully, large hand rubbing across his chin before finally leaning in close once more, "Wow. I'm suddenly on the receiving end of a moral lecture by a Super. Can't say I've ever experienced _that_ one before," Buddy intoned with as much droll sarcasm as he could possibly fit into a single sentence, "Still, isn't it though? I mean, think about it," and as he began counting each off on his fingers, Syndrome leaned in close from above her, distinctly looming, "Wearing a mask. Receiving the adulation of thousands. Gaining recognition for skills and abilities. I don't see us as being all that different, you and I."

The girl put on a show of stern disapproval, a mask that was ill-fitting at best on her youthful face. Especially while dressed in pretty, delicate fabric as she was, hair delicately fashioned in sprigs of flowering blue-black.

"Except for your current state of lawlessness, _right?_ You can try and explain it away all you want, but pretending doesn't change who we are, nor the choices we make. You _hurt_ people, I _help_ people."

"How do you know that, exactly?" casually leaning against the nearest display, which happened to be the one of the Roman god of war, Buddy did his best to look nonchalant, arms crossed. It was a look he pulled off well, no matter the face, and he hoped she would appreciate the effort it took not to get stabbed by the statue's many accessories, "I mean you know, what, the color of my eyes? The sound of my voice? Or, wait wait, you've got my name and number! That _must_ be it! In which case, it's my turn to ask why you haven't called me yet to confirm our upcoming date."

Blinking, the assistant gaped again, frowning this time. And as the first call was sent out that the gallery would be closing soon, she muttered and intelligent, "_what?_ Didn't you even listen to--?"

"I did. And you hold up a rather valid argument. For a debate or a legal defense, that is. But, well, neither of us is in school," a wicked smile spread wide from cheek to cheek. He was satisfied with the response he received by it, a rose blush spanning her entire face and long, elegant throat, "which makes you at _least_ eighteen. And to be honest, Super you might be, but I just don't see you as the Lawyering type."

"So," the redhead continued, "I say we give it a go. I mean, what harm is there in one itty bitty date? We can set aside our 'jobs' for one night, like regular adults. And just think about it--haven't you ever wanted to see what it was like on the wrong side of the tracks? After all, the lights shine brightest in the darkness, right?

Caught for a moment by his persuasive voice, but only for a moment, Butterfly's navy eyes had to shake themselves free as sterner stuff took their place. Then, with a voice that was both childlike and curiously devoid of all expression, she chose.

"No. I'm sorry. I can't."

_So. That was it, then_, the Mastermind thought with a large dose of frustration; energy which was quickly siphoned into more productive areas of his brain. After all, this was only the first test. The proverbial 'hypothesis' still had a chance to build into a 'theory.' And the Omnidroid wasn't built in a day--it had taken careful 'testing' and 'retesting.' All the situation truly required was an…_alternate_ method.

It was time for plan B.

Appearing only mildly disappointed, Syndrome expelled a deep, yet lighthearted sigh, "well. In that case I'm just going to have to cut and run again, I guess. Sorry to make the same exit twice, Sweetheart, but I still have some business to attend to."

A quick peck on her check was his farewell, an act that took real willpower on the man's part, and then he was running into the milling crowd of drones.

_NSA Rulebook Chapter 3: Confrontation._

IE, get them on your _own turf_, so that you have the advantage.

And, more importantly, there was the issue of Buddy wanting her to _chase after him_. 'Butterfly' had to want to capture 'James,' even if it was just for the purposes of arresting.

The rest could come later. A beginning was all he needed.

~/~/~

Senses sparking at the startlingly sweet action of his very-real lips brushing across her skin, Violet merely stared in the silence her Shadow had left. By the time her mind had grasped the sudden gap in space, his form was far off, a burly broad back disappearing into the sea of glittering patrons.

Immediately the girl moved into form for a sprint into the endless stream, but a solid hand upon her shoulder jumped her back into reality. Eyes shooting up to gaze into her 'Date's eyes.

"Hey, Violet. Are you doing okay--that guy looked like he was bothering you there for a bit," a chagrined look colored Tony's features temporarily as he continued, "sorry about that, by the way. I got trapped back there for a while. Kinda defeats my point as a bodyguard, I know. Sorry."

Blinking rapidly in an effort to return her fierce expression into something broaching normalcy, Violet forced a stilted smile, resisting the urge to fling his hand from her and run.

"It's okay, Tony. I appreciate your help anyway. Look…um. There's something I need to do--I think I left my sketchbook at one of the displays, so you go on ahead, okay?"

"Really?" thick brown eyebrows furrowed in genuine worry, and Vi resisted the urge to groan. Now as _not_ the time for male chivalry, "I can go talk to the host if you want. Maybe we can get some help searching for it."

"No, no--it's okay. You just go, I'll be fine. I know where it's at, and I can call a cab. Don't worry about me."

"But…"

"Besides," Vi added with inspiration, and she was almost surprised that a light-bulb didn't go off in their faces, "I think Kari might need a ride home. Her car broke down recently, and I don't think she has anyone to give her a lift."

The youth immediately brightened, eyes the color of hush puppies glowing in sudden anticipation. Seconds later he slumped as responsibility once again fell on his shoulders, "really? But…"

"I'll be fine. _Go_," the Villain was already out of sight; she had _seconds_ left before he disappeared entirely.

Tony huffed out a sigh, then eventually nodded, "okay. Just…_be careful_."

Those were his last faint words as Vi was off in a shot. And despite her preoccupation, they echoed ominously in the space left behind by a smattering of unconcerned footfalls, patrons turning away.

She didn't have time to ponder the multiple meanings of his words, however, as the Super headed for the darkened depths of the gallery's back room. An area she knew from past experience which probably held nothing more than empty stands, removable walls, and the plaster dust left over from remodeling the main gallery.

Knowing that it was likely he would find an escape route if she didn't quicken the pace, Violet tossed a series of crystalline bubbles at her feet, the tiny spheres transparent yet strong as they attached themselves to the base of her delicate slippers. The effect was instantaneous, and bracing herself much as Lucius had taught her a long time ago, she was soon skating after him hall by hall.

By then she was in the closed-down section of the building's interior. Having been sectioned off via temporary whitewashed walls, it was by accident that the girl found the "Employees Only" sign and attached entrance. A not-quite doorway festooned with long strips of plastic and an eery, sinister pall hanging overhead.

The crystal wheels disappeared without sound or conscious thought, faint echoes of the gallery host's last closing call a faint memory in her ears.

Then, Violet disappeared.

~/~/~

_It felt good to be evil_, Buddy thought to himself as the muted sound of plastic being swept aside reached his freckled ears. He'd doubted at first that she would follow, given the amount of time she'd taken and the rare opportunity for escape bestowed upon him. But like a clock dealing with daylights savings time changes, things had eventually fallen into place as she made her way to his path.

Even if she'd taken her sweet time doing it. For a second there, he'd even been worried. Him! Worried!

Still, the girl hadn't let him down. Nor had her almost rote sense of responsibility and predictability. It was those two that would play a large part. That, above all else, he could rely on.

Just when triumph was searing his veins, however, he dodged a glance at the door…only to see nothing, merely empty air. Arched eyebrows bridging across the expanse of his forehead, Syndrome scowled furiously. His mind ever-active as it searched for an explanation.

_Well, she _is_ a Super_, was his miniscule conscience's single dig, but he swiftly executed and buried the thought before it could irritate him overmuch.

Overanalyzing led to thoughts on her possible speed or ability to blend into environments, then to the girl's plausible identity. After all, much as he enjoyed referring to her as _Butterfly_, the fact still remained that she _was_ powered and he didn't know what those powers were, making her very existence a tricky piece of the equation.

_Chameleon_ and _Cheetara_ were unlikely identities, due to height and nationality differences. _Starshine_ was unlikely--the kid was as blonde as _Butterfly_ was midnight blue. And then there were any number of part-time Superheroes, who only fought for 'The Greater Good' on the side. He suspected she was one of those, as his military-like brain marched each image before the shooting squad of his mind, then quickly discarded them all like so many playing cards.

_Well, that just meant that he would have to do some tests of his own_, Buddy thought grimly to himself, for as much as he had outright denied the need for battle, a part of the criminal was expecting the inevitable. Birds flew, fish swam, Villains and Heroes fought. It was almost as automatic as breathing…or flirtation.

The thought made Buddy smile, but he shelved it for the moment.

A stack of beaten cardboard boxes had toppled during his distraction, and he immediately found himself jumping towards it, the directed trajectory of the falling objects immediately resulting in a hypothesized starting location. Yet when he reached the point he found himself wrestling with air.

And then his arms were free, the whirr of wheels bounding across the floor a counterpoint to the pounding in his ears; whatever it was, it had laid him flat with a hit over the head.

"Well, that was…interesting," the redhead finally muttered, feeling his skull for any major damage around the point of impact.

A breathy laugh was his answer, and immediately Syndrome swung his legs out into the dark, revealing the girl as she squealed indignantly. They wrestled for a good five minutes before he finally gained the upper hand, turning Butterfly over onto her back so that he loomed above the girl's form, both their chests heaving.

"…and that was fun, too," was Buddy's follow-up remark, chuckle sounding loudly against the cement floor. All his prey did was bark out a short, sarcastic laugh, then continued to glare up at him in frustration.

"You know, this whole situation could be solved easily if you just became a bad guy," he began conversationally into the shadows. As though neither of them were in a struggle for dominance, but instead peaceably speaking over dinner, "I mean, think of the perks. Destruction, mayhem, no more paperwork or having to play by the rules. And you always get free parking--or else!"

Thrown for a proverbial loop, the Assistant didn't respond at first. Eyes flickering rapidly like a dying monitor. Then just when he thought he'd truly shocked her into silence, she stuttered out a shocked, "w-what? No, no, no--that's crazy. _You're_ crazy!"

"Not exactly," Buddy murmured in light argument, "I mean, I'll give you that I'm obsessive, malicious, and more than a little blood-thirsty, but as far as I can tell I'm sane. Cold-hearted, even cold-blooded, but definitely sane. Besides, I don't find it to be all that surprising of a request. Bad guys and attractive female companions go together like movies and popcorn."

"_Attractive?_!" her eyes had widened as his words, voice cracking, and for a second he could have sworn he was staring down at straight cement. But a blink later and he determined that part of his hologram must have glitched, getting in the way.

"What, you don't think someone like you is, say _attractive?_" It was the cue he'd been looking for, the green light to lean in. Immediately her breathing became shallower, eyes darting away, "sweetheart, you saw the way they all looked at you at the fundraiser. The way I looked at you. And I may be a scumbag about a lot of things, but I can honestly say that I wouldn't have taken the chance I did if I didn't think you were attractive."

His fingers were itching at the desire to brush across her skin, and finally giving in to the urge the Villain moved to skim it down the moonstruck length of her cheek. The impression lasted hardly longer than a second, however, as the hand he had unthinkingly let go of jabbed him in the gut.

Allowing her the chance to roll out from under him as his body stiffened in shock, her so-called 'Delicate' fingers managing to hit his heart dead-center, and consequently the machinery attached. Something flickered, jolting Buddy's entire being, and beneath the layers of shirt and hologram his glorified pacemaker _pulsed_. Reflecting a sense of half-dread and anticipation while sparking with a feminine touch.

The scientist found himself freezing in the gloom as the thought echoed in the crevices of his cranium. Clockwork turning into a steady circle of energy as _something_ clicked into place.

A realization his body had made, but not quite his mind. Whatever it was, it was filling the void of pain that he should--.

That he _should_ be feeling.

The kid had hit him right in the mechanical parts, and Syndrome wasn't suffering for it, the man realized with sudden clarity. Instead the Frankenstein's Monster-of an engine was working _better_ than it had all day (attack included), not worse. Like an old car finally being pumped with the highest grade gas. He hadn't felt this much energy coursing through his nerve endings since the first time he'd touched the Amethyst Eye, Butterfly so lost in the emotion of the moment that she hadn't even noticed his theft.

It had been that first bolt of energy that had inspired him to create his current temperamental system. One which sent him into paroxysms of pain on a regular basis, but which was a far cry better than his older technological amalgamation. And years ahead of the state he'd been in upon first waking, years ago in that backwater hospital.

But now the system was humming like new, a faint violet glow showing through the dark fabric of his blue-black button-up. Humming like new after a single touch of his shy little Super…

~/~/~

Violet controlled her breathing as she slid to a stop on pointed ballet toes. Her lungs urged that she heave oxygen into the twin tanks, but she allowed them only a trickle of air until her heart rate had slowed and eyes refocused.

Then the girl waited.

She'd slammed 'James' dead in the chest with a full fist, yet the Super couldn't help but feel as though _she_ was the one being attacked, knuckles hitting metal. And she could have sworn that as her hand had made impact, literal sparks had flown.

Like he was a machine, or something.

Frowning into a darkness her eyes couldn't penetrate, Vi resisted the urge to reach in her pocket for her mask. It almost didn't feel right to be fighting _without_ it, that false sense of security completely devoid in this battle. But the results of such an act would be disastrous; the equivalent of Violet declaring her secret identity to the world.

As it stood now, the alias she had been born with was protecting her the way her costume typically did. In effect, since 'James' only knew her as Butterfly, he had no idea bout Invisigirl, and consequently Invisigirl's powers.

Which just might help her win.

Win what, she didn't consciously know. But one fact she was well aware of was that whatever he had planned, she probably won't like. And that was reason enough to fight back.

Ignoring the anticipatory butterflies fluttering away in her stomach, the girl closed her eyes and focused herself on just hearing.

~/~/~

Squinting electric blue eyes in an effort to scan the area, Syndrome's mind was as active as his form was still. Circuits firing and adrenaline pulsing and churning to become a steady stream of lava in his veins, legs set to bolt in a second's time.

A light scuffle of shoes sliding to a stop at his right caused him to immediately dash to the left and away. Then, when several long minutes had passed, he tossed out a challenge impishly, testing the waters to discover her reaction.

"So, I've been thinking about this so-called 'Game' you say I'm playing at here," even though he was sure she couldn't see it, Buddy quoted the term in the air with curled, blunt fingers, "and I think that we should make it official. After all, it _does_ sound fun. But, you know, where there's a game there's gotta be rules, right?" _Otherwise there would be nothing for him to break…_

Silence, then an echoing call muttered lowly back, "what are you talking about?"

A quick glance in the direction the voice had been thrown from revealed nothing but open air. The inventor frowned as he ducked back down, mouth and mind moving at the same time as he tried to calculate mentally just how fast she had to be in order to speak, then run off.

"A wager. That's what I'm 'talking about.' I'm willing to make a bet to get something I want, and if you win you get something you want."

"Which would be _what_, exactly?"

Syndrome smiled devilishly as he slowly rolled up his falling sleeves in the darkness, making sure nothing would get in the way once they began, "answers. You get all the obnoxious answers you want. Twenty of 'em, in fact."

Complete quiet, then, "and what would _you_ be getting out of the situation?"

The question was arch and ironic, with just the slightest hint of uncertainty underlying. As though she wasn't completely certain as to what she was asking.

If his grin could have widened in his anticipation, it would have.

_Which still made no sense to him_, his subconscious threw out into the ring, having finally escaped the proverbial gagging he had put it under. Buddy should have been avoiding anything even remotely close to someone like her, particularly with his efforts towards laying low and relatively invisible the past few years. Even the methods of his business resurrection were nonexistent to eighty percent of most known Villains worldwide, in contrast to his methods from 'before.' And those who _were_ aware of his existence held him in a mix of awe and horror; an untouchable being who could be anywhere and, more importantly, _anyone._

He was back at the top, finally retaking the throne he had lost previously, only rebuilding it with a firmer, boobytrap-laden foundation. So that it was stronger, fiercer, and more profitable, without the added irritant of pesky Superheroes.

So why was he so fixated with this _kid?_ A youthful maiden he knew must be at the very least ten years younger than him, and purer than snow in the Alps. It was like his puzzling reaction to her bruises--sense wasn't part of the equation, it just _existed_.

Like gravity, weighing him down. A heavy attraction that brought two masses together, yet at the same time was slowly pulling the world off course; a force that was undeniable, yet held a plethora of contradictions.

Escorting that confused, almost fanatically obsessive part of his brain other directions, the Inventor and Scientist returned to the will-o-wisp's inquiry. What had seemed like an ocean's worth of time, full of self-aimed doubt, had passed away in seconds; a tiny blip in the overall scale of things. But it was those achieved non-answers that echoed in Buddy's tone as his voice rumbled low and quiet, after having wet his lips in slight anticipation as his heart leapt painfully forward.

"_You_. Just you for a single evening, Sweetheart. No tricks, no gambles."

"…and the rules?"

"No powers."

After all, much as he would love to find them out there would be other times and opportunities to discover her secrets. If he wanted to win in this situation, he would have to level the playing field.

"You don't even know what they are," she countered dryly, and in the pitch night the scarred redhead could almost feel her sudden anxiety.

"Nor do I want to," _a lie_, "I wante-_I liked you_ before I knew you were a Super, remember?"

With a fierce frown in her hollow, reverberating voice, her rejoiner came back from a million soft directions at once, "but I could have used my abilities already and you wouldn't have known. What's to stop me from using them again, without your knowledge?"

"Nothing, really," and here was the kicker, "only your _integrity_."

The echoing drip of water from some far away leak was the answer he received for the next few moments.

"No powers. That means the both of us."

_Yes! She'd taken the bait!_

"Who said I had any powers?" Buddy said drily, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice.

"Who said you _didn't?_"

The smile died an abrupt death.

He might have a problem, should she claim her winnings; _Butterfly_ was too observant for her own good.

"That means no changing identities, either. No gadgets, no new _holograms_, no dirty tricks. No infrared beams and no accessories. This is going to be full-out hand on hand combat. Me against you."

"Ah-uh! This is a game, _not a fight_, remember? Speaking of, what happens if I don't agree to _your_ sudden new addendums? Do I get disqualified from _my own game?_"

"No," and any lingering sweetness leached itself from her resonant, suddenly cold tones, "the end result involves me not giving you a chance. I reject your proposal and treat this like a real battle; like I should already be doing, heaven help me. And if I do, I promise that I won't stop until I've done my job, with either you arrested or one of us incapacitated."

That took the criminal aback, but only long enough for him to reassess his opponent, then mockingly laugh, "Darlin', you shouldn't go flirting with me before the game's even begun--I didn't say_ anything_ about a _proposal_, and being incapacitated sounds fairly tempting right now," he allowed her the chance to experience one of her wickedly expressive blushes in the darkness, wishing he was able to witness it, before continuing, "although I've got to say that's pretty out of character for a Super; risking it all for the sake of a handful of answers? Pshaw! What would _mother _say?"

An unexpected reaction filled the gallery's back end, the warehouse reverberating as she laughed in a way neither reflecting a child's nature, nor that of one completely innocent. It was caressing and steely all rolled into one, and washed over him like an incoming tide, silent but lethal.

"I guess you could say that I'm like Alice in a way, falling into trouble. _'Curiouser and Curiouser.'_ Name your game, _James._"

"Don't mind if I do."

~/~/~

"Tag. _Tag_ is my game. Ten hits gets a winner; torso and back. Arm and leg hits aren't counted, head's off limits. And both players have to remain at this location."

Confusion struck for a second, but she quickly caught up with it, "no destruction of property, or the other forfeits. Civilians are included as 'property.'"

"…take all the fun out of it, why don't you?"

"Just doing my heroic duty."

His voice nearly groaned from the black, "can't you hang up the suit for at least one night?"

"You want me, you have to have _all_ of me," as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Violet wanted to take them back, blush glowing neon as her 'Shadow' guffawed.

"Let's just _start_, already."

"Fine by me. On my mark…"

"Fine."

"GO!" the shout was a shot in the dark, and before the designer could even think he was on her now-visible form, flight coming to a sudden halt as a hand gripped her round her waist, pivoting on one foot in order to plant her back harshly into one of the freestanding moveable display 'walls.' The blow was lighter than she would have expected, given the pull of gravity and the overall force of the turn, yet it was still firm enough to wind her. Taking the breath straight from her lungs and sparking lights behind her eyes like fireworks in July.

"Why, hello there!" James greeted cheerfully once the image cleared, the young Super finding her hands planted high above her head once more, gripped by one of his as James' baby blues grinned out from the face of someone entirely different--a switch which had probably occurred just before his promise to keep the same features. This time it was an African American man, bald as the cartoonish Luthor himself and sporting a trim beard not unlike one she'd seen Lucius bear in her younger years.

Once Violet was immobilized he swung in for the kill, attacking her ribs mercilessly until she couldn't help but laugh out loud in her shock. An indignant squeal broke the ice to their newfound game, complete and uncensored. Only when she was breathless to the point of collapsing did he stop, allowing her slim form to rest bonelessly against his torso, releasing her hands so that she could place them on his shoulders in order to keep upright.

"…Tag. You're it, Butterfly," was the devilish voice that gleefully whispered in her ear, a puff of breath raising the hair on her neck in a smattering of sensitive gooseflesh. Then as she stiffened within the band of his arms, the man turned ever so slightly so that his lips rested at the base of her neck just below her ear.

Violet gasped, then froze, triumph humming with electricity--.

_Triumph humming with electricity?_ The thought put a pause to her sensory overload, an echoing signature of something coming through loud and clear.

And familiar.

Although one element was missing; the poisonous lacing of pain running down her nerve endings. Paralyzing her with the pain of another.

Pain of another.

No.

There was _no way_.

A jolt back and she was out of his arms and running into the dark, only instinct saving her from a side-swipe via the arm of an art easel. Only when she was safe within the confines of an abandoned desk did Violet stop to think, a series of ideas running through her mind like Dash on Caffeine, knowledge opening her gaze to the _bigger picture_.

James was the one. The other end of the connection. And just as in those times of excruciating pain she could experience what he was feeling, in that instant of touch she'd known his thoughts.

Triumph, the kind one felt upon besting an opponent or defeating a challenge. Attraction was there, just as he'd forthrightly said, but so too was the impression that she was, or at least their competition was, a tool or means to an end. An end she couldn't quite glimpse, but the impression was strong enough to be a proverbial bucket of cold water.

Still, a part of the Superhero couldn't completely discount the connection. Here was a man that, criminality aside, lived in pain. Life-altering, shock-inducing pain; a pain she wouldn't have known existed behind his cavalier attitude, if she hadn't felt it herself.

Along with his desire to win. It was just one of the many things she'd felt over the past few months from him, but it was by far one of the clearest. And following it was a floodgate of information on the verge of pouring out, if she could only key into the right mix of impressions.

Violet smiled grimly. It wasn't her powers she would be using to win this fight, but she wouldn't be without an advantage either. From there she could discover his next move, and perhaps get ahead of the game herself. Unfortunately, the best way to key into his mind was through touch, as evidenced by the shock she'd experienced. Which made her situation difficult.

In working to win she would be risking herself.

Breathing silently and deeply through her mouth and out her nose, Violet crept forward from her hiding place and into a runner's position. Once a vague tendril of heat warmed her heart and tickled her vision she was awarded with a general sense of location. The Super immediately dove into a full-out sprint, only instinct saving her from the shrouded objects blocking her way.

The patter of slippered feet were his only warning before she plowed dead into his chest, earning a point and receiving--!

A barrage of chaotic feelings. Including half-startled bemusement for her method of attack, as well as the desire to wrap his arms around her in leu of an excuse to tag, and--.

Blushing, Violet dove back seconds before he could clamp a vice-like grip around her. Despite the jump away, James almost seemed invigorated by the encounter, and tried a second time to catch the Super's form, only to watch as she literally slipped through his fingers.

"Oh-ho-ho, you're more daring than I gave you credit for. But you'll find that your actions might not be completely to your advantage," her shadow chuckled lowly into the midnight, surrounding Vi like a shroud as his voice seemed to come from every side. Until, remaining tendrils of their interaction led her to his location under a length of stairs. The heroine instinctively moved away, using her coloring and the gloom to her advantage.

"Why would that be?" was the low, almost whispered reply.

"Oh, just a little _experiment_ I'm working on right now, is all," the sheer cheeriness of his tone was belied by his tonal emphasis. The assistant shivered.

"…which is?" reaching a length of ladder leading upward, the girl had only to climb a few rungs before she would be far above him, hopefully offering some leverage.

"One based on something called…the _Amethyst Eye_. You might have heard of it?"

That froze Vi in her tracks. The _Eye_. He had it _with_ him!

The thought was followed up by immediate suspicion.

Or did he?

There was no time to ponder the may-or-may not be lie as the fight began again, the two of them sparring back and forth with the precision of two dancers in a ring. And in many ways it felt like a dance, just as much as their very _real_ dance had felt in many ways like a battle of wills. For every swing that came at her she limberly ducked, and each time he reached round for her waist or back, the clash of skin against skin scraped across her awareness, like sandpaper to her senses; both caustic and soothing.

Neither faltered, regardless of the length of time that sped away without note, adrenaline and more pumping through her veins. And something about her opponent's words and actions gave her the feel that he was older than he looked, yet the Shadow never tired; rather, with each touch he was seemingly emboldened, grin wider and confidence more arrogant. But she gave as good as she got, until a mere three points remained between the two of them, with James at 7 and Violet at a tie.

Soon enough another trap was laid, her heartbeat tripped over itself as the reverberating thrum of flesh grabbing hold of a hollow metal bar shook her bones. Involuntarily the woman looked down, only to make immediate eye contact with a flash of impish ice-blue. The moment broke, however, and suddenly the race was on.

One hand over the other, with each footfall coming succession to Vi's own. Soon a rhythmic cadence was created by their lethal tango upward, until her progress was shockingly stunted by a hand snatching at her ankle again.

Violet gasped reflexively, then immediately attempted to shake the wrist with no success. What followed was a semi-playful struggle for dominance, the ladder shaking with the force of two bodies fighting their way to the top. The realization that James might have a different purpose in mind than a mere tag only struck the Super as his presence dwarfed hers, body surrounding as his feet latched on the same rung she was on, one hand turning to grip her wrist now and the other the ladder itself. Abruptly he removed the offending hand, however, as it instead swiftly wrapped around her torso in an impromptu hug.

Then, with lips so close to her ears that the skin was nearly burning with the almost-touch, he whispered a devilish, "Tag. You're it."

A laugh followed, starting lowly first before increasingly loud within the quiet of the room, James breaking up a potentially romantic moment with a maniacal laugh. With what was worse being that she recognized it, the tones calling forth some unnamed emotion from the pit of her stomach. Frightening the child inside of Vi's chilled form, even as her ire was brought up as an immediate defensive shield.

The thought was the deed to action and reflexively she swiped away his now-unresisting hands free from her middle with all the speed of a bullet train, hands incased in her thinnest protective bubble ever created as she slid out of his grip and down the ladder, not waiting for him to react once she was at the base. A dash for the door leading back to the main gallery was met with low, amused chuckles, and like a mouse trapped by the claws of its cat prisoner, Violet moved frantically through her only means of escape.

But not before hearing from her lone attacker the words, "impressive. _Very_ impressive. Didn't expect that."

And hopefully he hadn't seen the miniscule use of her powers, either. The girl had reacted immediately under threat, instinctively relying on her abilities with the overload of positive and negative information. It had been an accident, and she hadn't meant to, but it was no excuse for her breaking the rules, albeit accidentally.

Because something felt changed between them by her action, however small, as though in doing so their 'game' hand lost its friendly undertone and became something more sinister. A state which was distinctly different, yet neither bad nor good, just emotionally charged.

Hiding behind a section of 'wall' decorated with portraits in oil, Violet maintained total stillness in an effort to blend in, her solemn features matching the others close by.

The sound of plastic sliding away from a doorframe gave her an exact location, but from there all that came was cursed silence, not even a heavy tread to indicate his presence. Blood roared in her ears with the eerie thump of her own heartbeat drumming faster and faster. So much that she missed the shadow on shadow image which appeared across from her.

But nothing could disguise the foreign feeling of triumph touching her nerve endings, nor the light glow of an object muffled by cloth kitty-corner from her location.

A blasted exclamation of, "Gotcha!" came seconds too late for James as she twisted full away until they were facing each other directly in the corridor. It was a standoff, with each bearing an advantage of either speed or strength, James' teeth and eyes glowing a malevolent off-white in the room's pitch lighting.

However a kick later he was pushed back against a support beam, Violet huffing out an emotionless, "Tag."

Until she realized that he had latched both hands on her calf, keeping her steadily in place. Twisting and turning availed her nothing, and with a deceptively childish grin the criminal pulled her in. Making sure as he clinically did so that she was unable to move or fight. Once the girl was in his grip he fit a single hand again around her narrow waist, the other pulling deceptively elegant fingers into a hand clasp. His thumb deliberately sliding over to press against her pulse in the process.

"Ah-ha! There we go, that's what I was looking for. And Tag, you're it again, by the way."

_What?_

Pausing in her frantic struggle to frown, words were cut short as he brought the palm up for a chaste kiss on its surface, cool blue eyes still sparking mischievously.

"You, _my dear_, broke the rules."

~/~/~

She broke away like hydrogen atoms when faced with too much heat. And then she was around the corner and gone from his view.

Ah-ha! Now there was the second half of his answer--her sudden state of flustered panic, and easily-read guilt, an emotion plenty of Supers could attest to feeling, but not many Villains. She had not only played into his game within a game, seeking him out herself in an effort to 'win,' but he had also gained enough data through observation to learn something new about their 'gift.'

She could heal him, yes. But not only that, he could also feel what she was feeling. Explaining the impressions of a calm room in mellow cream; of color, of safety, exhaustion and relief.

All it had taken was a few hits and a few consequential power bursts from the girl before a light-bulb turned on, noting that while every time they touched he received a power surge of energy, attached to that sudden spring of adrenaline came an impression of foreign feeling. Like reading a book in first-person point-of-view, forced to observe only what the character observed and the view tainted by the individual's morals. It had lasted mere seconds, but it didn't take long to put two and two together, what with Butterfly's open expression easily matching up with the feelings washing over and under.

Unable to hold back the grin that now spanned like a canyon across his planet of a jaw, Syndrome set himself into an almost meditative state, crossing arms and propping himself up on one foot as he set aside their current score (Him: 9. Butterfly: 8) in order to tap into the right frequency.

He could _feel_ her reactions to her actions, his voice, and his touch, and it was heady knowledge to know he had that much effect on just one person, particularly a person that had such a strong effect on him. And the more they drew repeatedly near, the stronger it became, until with closed eyes Buddy could nearly pinpoint where she was.

Like X-Ray vision, only set to a frequency unseen by most humans. If he didn't know any better, he could almost blame it on infrared, causing a psychic echo created by living beings letting off heat.

Deduction had already ruled out a different answer, though. For just like his sudden Super-sent power kicks, the emotional watermark _had_ to come from the gem. No other explanation answered the question as fully. Even if he had to disregard its inability to conduct electricity, in favor of the idea that it was her _empathic_ abilities at work.

Explaining her comment earlier, about acting without his knowledge. That had to be it, which meant Butterfly was either _Psiwave_ or _Telezone_, both which concealed their hair and fell within the same body-type category.

That _had_ to be it.

~/~/~

"You, _my dear_, broke the rules."

She didn't think, she just ran.

Chest heaving, form buzzing from a mix of adrenaline and fear. Instinctive, irrational fear, as she knew that her actions had earned a punishment of some sort--he was too dangerous for her to expect otherwise. As it stood now the pretense of playing had disappeared entirely, and regardless of the threats she'd stated with such confidence at the beginning, she knew that it was far safer to run than to remain.

So Violet ran, and continued to run. The gallery was a maze of beautiful work turned disfigured by the light and her fear, so that when she was confronted with faces she alternately froze and dashed away, not knowing her pursuer's true visage. And when she passed sculptures and objects turned skewed with fright, welded metal immediately became broad shoulders and a malevolent presence.

But there was always the door. The exit which glowed a heavenly green halo of safety, just beyond her view at the edge of the horizon. If she could make it to the door, she could get away, and become invisible once more. An idea which was tempting even now, but not something she could risk as long as she was within her Shadow's clutches.

And then she was on her home stretch, the displays falling away like so many card soldiers before Alice's path. All it would take was one last dash--!

Pain lanced through her shoulder as a figure tackled Violet from across the empty expanse, ending with both of them pressed flat against the wall, breath mingling and chests heaving from something more than exhaustion.

In the Assistant's case, it was panic and alarm, mind and heartbeat running like a rabbit caught in a snare. With pain as a counterpoint to her near hyperventilating state.

Pain which should have been gone by now.

Vi's run-around thoughts stopped dead in their circular path as epiphany struck yet again with an ironic twist. Her Super ability, an inherent genetic talent existing from birth, was matched by a Superior ability to heal, which, while by no means perfect, had saved her on numerous occasions and was part of what kept her going during fights.

But the pound into her shoulder hadn't healed yet to a light twinge, as it was wont to. It was throbbing and aching on the same level as a poison-lanced attack by _Neptunous_, or a throw across a city block by _Grorilla_, woman-ape wrestling prodigy.

It _shouldn't_ still hurt.

Unless it wasn't completely her hurt she was feeling. Or maybe, by some sort of stretch of imagination, her ability to heal was being siphoned off; directed somewhere else in an effort to heal another, different wound…

Or a similar wound on a different shoulder.

Navy-colored eyes shot up, but not to the eye level of her grinning attacker, so much as one of his attaching appendages. Where it probably would have hurt him as well, from the impact they had created. And in the tension-filled quiet slowly settling around them, she again had an impression of his thoughts.

Laughter. Triumph. Attraction. Slight pain, but it was fading quickly as awareness took its place. Truth came immediately, like lightning: she may have broken the rules, but apparently so had he.

All bets were off.

A jab into the chest was matched by a furious, "Tag! Number nine!" but when she tried again, he caught her pointed hand in one of his larger, freckled ones, inner surface alternately soft and calloused.

And then with an exasperated huff of amusement, 'James' lifted her up fully within his arms, until they were full form against form, his hand resting on her back in his last, and most important, _tenth_ tag. Senses buzzing, adrenaline rushing through them both. His pain was more distinct, and this time he could also feel hers, if the sharp flare of surprise in his clear, intelligent blue eyes was any indication. The bruises which matched on both their arms pulsed with mild anger, and heartbeat synched within the tides of proximity.

And then, when both least expected it, there came the voice of thought.

_'Oh, man. She's _hot_ when she's angry.'_

_'You are _so_ going down, you big cheater.'_

Time stilled, eyes widened, and expressions became slack. James' hologram flickered and jumped from face to face for a millisecond with the sudden overload of new energy, before settling on a juxtaposition of young Native American features and silver hair, still with the blue eyes remaining.

Violet didn't know which of them moved first, but hovering two feet off the ground she found herself suddenly within the grips of her second kiss. His lips still soft, but so much stronger than the first time under the grips of their connection.

A connection which was fiercer than either of them had guessed.

She could feel what he was feeling, a rush of reckless exhilaration, attraction, and a heavy dose of amused shock. Endorphins were pumping through his form, tingling both their nerve endings in one heady swirl of sensation, as they lost themselves in the kiss.

Just as she could sense what he was feeling, she had no doubts that he could see her own. So it was with a smile on her lips that she permitted him a wicked view of her own outlook. Her fingers tangling within hair that was longer than his holograph showed, and more than ready for a cut. A single thumb brushed across a hidden, scarred cheek, her eyes falling closed in an effort to create a mental image of his features and coming up with only an image of light stubble on a broad face. And the burning feel of his hands spread across her back was far more intense than their last encounter.

In fact the two kisses were nothing alike. While the first had been a mischievous testing of the waters, a simple taste of forbidden fruit, this was a mingling of souls. They had passed a barrier of some sort, breaking down the walls socially just as they had through their shared dreams. And while their fight had been deadly in its later seriousness, it had just been another test. To find out if they were able to stand up to each other's onslaught, neither giving in. To see if they were on a equal footing, only to be delighted upon discovering a perfect, exhilarating match.

This connection, like a chess piece landing in an unchangeable checkmate, was echoed in the movement of her body against his. Arms wrapped around his burly neck as he chuckled against her lips, one of his hands rising to brush at the short feathering her hair had become. If the feelings radiating from him were anything to go by, he had a positive opinion of short-haired women now, at the very least.

The thought was fleeting, though, as the two of them were forced to come up for air, breaking apart so that she once again touched the ground, only her hands still remaining on his form. And looking up into a face that clearly wasn't his, then on to clear blue eyes that seemed to sear into her, she couldn't help but smile.

Until he answered it with a smirk, false cheekbones rising in mirth, "I think I won that one, don't you think? So…Dinner. Italian. _Fennuci's_ on 5th. Next Saturday, you and me at seven. What do you say?"

Her response was to slap the back of his head, then as he squealed in hurt and surprise she pecked a butterfly kiss on his chin and moved away.

"Fine. But _you're_ paying."

Hips swaying, she opened the gallery's door to the sound of alarms being set off. And for once, she was the one creating their disharmony rather than answering the call. But the Superheroine found she didn't care.

Then, soon as she was safely free from James' view, Violet disappeared into the night. Leaving him with nothing to hold on to except for the last, sly smile on her face. Even as a billion thoughts resounded through her brain, to the punctuation of a voice that sounded ironically like her mother in lecture mode.

After all, what was she getting herself into, falling for a Villain? And he _had_ to be insane--because he liked her _right back_. You couldn't hide something like that, especially when the other person knew exactly what you were thinking.

Vi couldn't tell if that was a good thing or bad thing. And perhaps, for once in her life, it was neither.

~/~/~

AN: …soooo. Writing this felt like eating too much Candy Corn on Halloween. It's fine in the beginning, but by the end you want to shoot the guy who came up with the concoction.

I actually wrote three different versions before settling on this one. Version one was a mess from the start. Version two was wrong the whole time--I was in an 'Icarus' mood when writing it, so while it was_ most definitely_ awesome, it was also very, very dark…and completely out-of-character for these versions of them. (A few bits might be recycled for future Icarus chapters, but for the most part I can't do much with it. -shrugs-)

Version three had the right balance of flirtation and combat, but I'm not sure if I'm satisfied--that's an awful lot of fluff, there, and I don't know if Vi or Syndrome approve. I can only hope they don't put up a fuss when I write Icarus later. Although I have to say that I really did try my best to get the right balance of romance and clean content, for my own sake as well as younger readers. If I pushed their 'fight' too much just let me know, and I'll fix it to make it more reader friendly.

(Also, as an fyi, yes, I am taking an Astronomy class right now, in case if you noted the science references. XD )

Ugh. All I can say is that I'm really looking forward to the change in pace with the next chapter. In which the situation takes a bit of a turn. I can't say much more than that. :)


	4. Truth

**Masks**

By Shahrezad1

Disclaimer: By this point, I think it's fairly well-established that I'm poor. Meaning, that if I really was as awesome as Brad Bird, to create something like "The Incredibles," I probably wouldn't be in the penniless state I'm currently in.

Summary: "At least if anything happened she'd know she only had herself to blame."

~/~/~

Chapter 4: Truth

"_I know that the Spades are the swords of the soldiers,_

_I know that the Clubs are weapons of war._

_I know that Diamonds mean money for this art,_

_But that's not the Shape of my heart._

_That's not the shape…_

_Shape of my heart._

_And if I told her that I loved you,_

_Maybe think there's something wrong._

_I met a man with too many faces,_

_The __**Mask**__ I wear is one."_

_-__**Shape of My Heart**__, Sting_

~/~/~

Violet flattened the creases in her dress beneath her hand as she glanced again at the address. She'd paid a Taxi Driver to bring her here, but as soon as she'd shown him the location he'd become nervous. And not seconds after climbing out of the ragged, rust-coated vehicle he'd driven furiously away, almost taking her shawl with him in the process.

His actions only succeeded in reviving her fears, Vi's heart pounding loudly in her ears.

Which didn't make sense. She was a _Super_. She could handle herself in a fight—heck, she could handle herself against 'James,' even. But she still shouldn't run headlong into a dangerous situation. And something in her gut told her danger of some kind would be involved, a sense of trepidation rising throughout.

Was it the gloomy atmosphere that was affecting her through the mix of obvious depression and crime; the feel of eyes running along her skin something she couldn't quite shake off? Or could it be the knowledge that she was very much on the wrong side of the tracks, at the wrong time of night? Even on her runs as a super she'd never entered this way without backup. Or at least body armor.

As things stood all she had as a shield right now was several layers of silk and a thin hand-embroidered wrap E had loaned her, in order to 'complete the ensemble.' She felt naked without a coating of reinforced Lycra underneath her outfit, but she'd had no choice but to discard the protective covering in favor of style.

At least the entryway looked hospitable enough, in contrast to its environs. A smartly-dressed attendant calmly watched the door, even if he resembled a Navy seal more than anything, and the cheery façade of swooping arches and royal columns impressed even her.

The embossment of some sort of symbol was etched into the glass doors, but she couldn't get a good glimpse at it, nor did she really care as she was inescapably drawn towards the edifice. It was truly the only thing alive in the area; the only building unmarred by the blight of crime, and she was drawn by that knowledge.

It gave her heart, somehow, and so Vi stepped forward. But with it came the thought of her mother and a conversation they had once shared, which had been on her mind for the past few days and she had somehow been unable to shake. In fact, she'd been thinking about it since the night she and James had kissed the second time. Ever since she'd really thought about their upcoming 'date,' connected with the realization that she would be, in effect, walking straight into the lion's den. His turf, not hers.

_'There will be a time when Villians start to realize that you're not just a Super, but a _woman_. When that time comes you need to not be tempted by what they're offering. You need to hold your head high, put your foot down, and stand up for what you believe in. Don't be fooled by a mask of charm-a prettily painted snake in the grass is still a snake.'_

At the time she'd blushed furiously, turning invisible almost on automatic. But now that she was older she was starting to understand what her mother had meant.

She wouldn't let herself get fooled by flirtation, charm, or good looks-especially good looks that changed on a holographic whim. But somehow she still felt as though she'd already failed _that_ test. What _was she_ _doing_ giving into his demands and requests? What she should really do was either break things off or…or…

Well, okay she _didn't_ know what she should do. Possibly arrest him, but on what grounds? _Driving her insane?_ The attraction between them existed like an exposed telephone wire; a form of communication existed, but at the cost of possible electrocution. That's what she was doing: playing with fire. It just reinforced her possibly insanity-she should definitely get her head checked the next time she visited the NSA.

She'd wondered that at least a dozen times in between work and training. But then those moments of synaptic overload-pain sizzling through their delicate connection-had always brought her instinctive need to care and protect to the forefront; her almost-sympathy a continual stumbling block. Because even though he was, however accidentally, mooching off her ability to heal, their sudden closeness had developed a sort of emotional message system. And if the pain was torturous, then the expressive, 'Thank You' notes he passed down the 'line' to her were the sweetest of balms.

It was those in moments that she knew. Knew that something was there; that there existed some sort of underlying connection which went beyond the scope of their meager familiarity. And while she might be a 'Naïve Little Super,' as _Arsenic_ had coined for the tabloids, the chance for love was too much of a temptation for her to pass it by.

Violet thought of a certain Princess's apple-based fate with a wry smile.

At least if anything happened she'd know she only had herself to blame.

Sighing, the Super drew her cover closer about her shoulders, shivering. Then with determination matching every stride, marched her way up to the entrance where the doorman had been discretely watching her. For signs of sudden weaponry or mental breakdowns she didn't know.

Escorted immediately inside, her chill and anxiety was immediately dispelled by the atmosphere. The building's interior was in stark opposition to its outer surroundings, and within the golden-red ambiance of luxury she could hear the din of chattering couples and calm businessmen. All appeared to be normal and level, from the plus seating arrangements and gilded chandeliers down to the rich crimson carpet.

Violet found herself awed in the face of her surroundings but hid it easily, having had practice while traveling with E. The maître d caught the quick disguise and arched a brow approvingly but said nothing, merely waiting for her to come to him rather than the usual way around.

"Good evening, Sir. I believe I have a reservation tonight," Vi filled in quickly, straightening her spine in full 'confidence mode' in response to the environment. He also took note of this change, mustache twitching, and turned to the large tome before him. It was large and ornate, each thick one-inch section representing a month, give or take. The edges were finely plated with gold, and she noticed him wearing silk gloves to turn its pages.

"Indeed, Miss. Under what name may I find it?"

"It's under-," but suddenly Violet found herself faltering, words lost. Under what exactly? _James? Butterfly?_ It couldn't very well be under her companion's real name, but if it was how was she to know? He'd honestly never told her, and the Fashion Assistant found herself flushing under the suddenly hard, grey-eyed scrutiny before her.

"She's with me."

Navy eyes flew upward as she whirled around, stumbling slightly in her heels.

Instinctively she placed her hand on his chest in order to steady herself, and received a flood of unspoken information as her palm rested above his heart. Admiration, awe, strong attraction, and boyish happiness that she'd _actually come_ washed through her, as serene and deadly as the tide coming in. And looking up into his disguised face she could see his electrically-charged blue eyes reel minutely at her own feelings: anxiety, worry, uncertainty, and longing mixed into a poignant pot of emotional tea, coursing from Vi to James in a quite-literal heartbeat.

"Hi," he murmured, voice and expression softening the slightest amount. To an observer it would have seemed like no change at all, but with them so close the look was matched with feeling. And Vi responded without inhibition.

"Hi, yourself."

The host cleared his throat, breaking the moment and suddenly looking both at attention and in awe at the same time, a change Vi noted with surprise, "ah, Monsieur Eh-."

"A table for two. My usual spot if possible, please, Jacques."

The man scurried off, and suddenly Violet was again the victim of those intense eyes. And that rakish smile, even if it really wasn't his own.

"So. You came."

"I didn't really have much of a choice, now did I?" the tart immediately came back in her tone, but they were matched equally with a sideways smile, carefully outlined eyelids dropping to half-mast, "we had a deal."

"Provided I pay," he rumbled ironically.

"Which leads us to our current situation, doesn't it," was the last quip to cap their remarks, and for a second the two of them merely watched each other. Until the return of said host broke the moment once more.

Violet was really starting to get annoyed with the guy.

Still, she graciously accepted the man's help as he directed them to a shrouded table, candlelight it's only source of illumination. Another table stood closely at attention, in wait for other guests, but the night was still young and a solid third of the seating within the restaurant remained empty for the time; but expectantly, as though in anticipation of change. It was James himself that pulled out her chair, hand lingering on the small of her back as she was directed forward.

She didn't have to shiver to know that he felt her thrill at the touch, and blandly frowning she met his twinkling eyes over one shoulder, her date keeping his smile tightly in check.

The maître d hovered for seconds more, respectful air sliding towards the simpering side and as fake as a three dollar bill. But James tolerated it, depositing a liberal tip in the man's hand along with an unspoken request for privacy without any change in expression. Immediately the odious man's face lowered until it was parallel with the floor in a deep and impulsive bow, spine permanently cemented in its L-shaped formation as he carefully inched away in a subservient manner.

As soon as they were alone her companion's mask on top of a mask altered to a true expression of disdain.

"Parasites on the system…" Violet thought she heard her date say, his hand thrown up and over his shoulder as though tossing salt in a ward against evil.

The heroine chuckled wryly, but said nothing as the two of them were drawn into a pregnant silence. He stared just above her hairline while she examined the delicate intricacies of a table well-built. Then almost simultaneously their eyes, light blue to dark blue, met over the china place-setting. Creating a shock of energy both literal and figurative and causing the both of them to start in shock, the connection only ending as James looked away, breathing heavily.

"So. I'm here now. What comes next, Mr. Mysterious?"

It was ironic that when she finally broke the ice it was in some sort of epithet, almost Superhero-ish in nature. But it allowed James' uncharacteristic discomfort to dissipate, like the wall of a bank under the force of an antimatter ray.

He straightened and laughed, loosening his tie more for breathing room now, rather than out of any awkwardness, and then, through the smooth and unlined visage of a holographic mask, he pinned her with a vivid gaze. His smirk simultaneously flirtatious and up to no good.

"Next? Now we talk, Butterfly."

_Thank you, Captain Obvious._ She rolled her eyes in an effort not to fall under the onslaught of his decidedly observant gaze, "about what, exactly? The woes of dealing with underhanded coworkers? How about the cut and style of the costumes that are 'in' this season?"

"We could talk about that," he said quietly, both eyebrows lilting to create a look that was gentle, if mocking. But the emotions that were niggling through her barriers were colored in curiosity, "or we could talk specifically about the cut on style of your suit in specific. Unless you consider that question to be off-limits?"

Violet blushed. _Definitely off limits._ And she made sure her side of their emotional connection let him know this fact.

"Buuuuut…as much as that idea delights me, _Sweetheart_," and here the man tossed her a subtle wink, which occurred so quickly that it could have been a mere trick of the light. Vi blinked, "I have a _feeling_ you'd disapprove of that little suggestion. So! I suggest a game."

"A game?"

Her suspicious question would have to wait, however, as their water arrived. A burly waiter dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored black slacks, multiple gold rings decorating muscular knuckles.

Rings Vi made an effort to ignore as she realized that she recognized them from her _other_ line of work.

_What a way to drive a point home._

The muscular attendant was nothing if not professional, though, no trace of 'thuggishness' evident as he politely gave them their separate menus. And when it came her turn to order he didn't even blink an eye at her odd request.

"'Herbal tea?'" James questioned once they were once again alone, complete with 'air quotes' and casually mocking tone.

"'Bottled water-unopened,'" she parodied back, deadpan. Then answered his question anyways, "ah, but just imagine someone like me with the lowered inhibitions one normally associates with alcohol," bland smile and slightly upraised eyebrows invited him to do the math.

But he only barked out a laugh, "you still don't trust me, do you?"

"No," it was only the truth. And 'James,' wondered if he should feel insulted or not, "I don't. But what does your bottled water say about me?"

"Nothing about you, really. Just that I don't want any…contaminants."

"Contaminants?" she prodded.

And this time when he answered, somehow the twist of his mouth seemed less like a smile and more like a grimace, "Poison."

"Paranoid."

"It's not paranoia when you've actually dealt with it before."

And since Violet had nothing to say to that, having not had a similar experience. But when he smiled a triumphant smile at his petty little 'win,' the girl just gave him a look saying that the argument was far from over. But for the moment the subject would be dropped.

"So…a game? Aren't you afraid it'll go the same way your last one did?"

Tracing the tablecloth in a mathematical equation he could only understand, the disguised villain replied quietly; thoughtfully, "You know, I actually thought that went pretty well. Considering how it got you here."

But she ignored the flirtatious effort at avoidance in favor of an honest answer, looking blandly on. Amused exasperation via their connection was the eventual concession she received, mixed with a surprisingly honest, self-aimed smirk.

"Besides, this could be your chance at getting a one-up on me."

"Really? And how exactly would I do that?"

Smirking, he held up all his freckled fingers as though they held the key to the universe. And once the man started speaking she found that, in a way, they did, "ten questions. I'm sure you've got a few things you've been _dying_ to ask. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't, either."

"But?" she asked suspiciously. And Violet could tell that he was ever-so-slightly proud of how she'd grown from trusting innocent to a wary, if still naïve, little Super.

"But no 'take-backs.' No _outright_ identity questions. And nothing that could get us kicked out of this place."

And then Violet felt her lips draw into a smile, wicked irony tickling her senses, "what, you mean suddenly you're the cautious one? No turning out the lights in order to steal from the guests, or running like mad through the off-limits section of an art gallery? Nothing like that?"

"Well, you do have habit of making me act out."

"_I_ haven't made you do anything!"

~/~/~

"Nothing I've ever _regretted_, anyway," the red-haired man continued, resulting in a delightful blush spanning from neck to ears.

She really was beautiful when she was irritated, Buddy mused with a quiet little smirk. From head to lovely toe, her emotions seemed to always be reflected in her body language. Even down to the way she reflexively tilted her head and shifted her shoulders.

The woman across from him wet her lips unconsciously, not realizing what a distraction it was. And Syndrome resisted the urge to pull her across the table with him, all the while keeping an eye out for the maître d.

Notoriety. It was the one drawback of having street credentials. Because from the moment when he'd first walked up to the entryway and onward the man had been itching to blow his cover, the title he'd so carefully chosen in the place of his last pseudonym hovering on the tip of his lips. A pointed look overtop Butterfly's head had closed the man's mouth before he'd had the chance to utter a single word, but the leach still hadn't been above making obeisance for a quick buck.

Thankfully their waiter was a little more circumspect, though, taking note of the silver eye stickpin Buddy wore, yet saying nothing as the cultured underling had handed them their menus. And he'd remarked even less, if that was possible, on Syndrome's chosen companion.

Even now he was maintaining a safe distance from the couple, in wait for the subtle nod the Villain was likely to toss his way once the conversation was free of 'accidentally overhear-able' topics. It was one of the plus sides to the restaurant hiring discrete help (host excluded), and Pine could tell he was an old hand with the whole setup.

Making their current flirtation all the easier to manipulate.

~/~/~

"Alright, then," Violet mustered in a quiet voice, wry smile switching over to curious warmth, "what color is your hair?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew she'd spoken too swiftly, a feeling of self-aimed irritation born along with the dread his smirk created.

"Right now-blonde."

One down, nineteen to go. And in this little chess game of theirs she was already off to a bad start, impulse making her heedless.

If there was one thing she _needed_ to remember, the young designer scolded herself sternly, it was the fact that he was _a villain_. Their attraction may be honest and, as accidental experimentation through 'magical' emotional connections had proved, mutual, but he would still ruthlessly take advantage of her when given the chance to do so. It wasn't personal-it was just business to him, she knew. And if she wanted to get any sort of real information out of him then she would have to take the same standpoint.

"What is your _physical appearance underneath_ your illusion?" the young woman responded succinctly, only to have one freckled finger place itself upon her lips, silencing her effectively. Violet blushed, and 'James' smirk smoothed into a satisfied smile.

"I'm next, remember."

"I actually _don't_ remember that being part of the bargain."

"My turf, my rules. I won the date; you have to answer my questions too."

Suspicion rose like a wall between them, but it was a narrow wall overrun by vines and rimmed with flower bushes. And as though it was standing right before them Vi could almost imagine a hole, or chink, breaking through the dividing space between them.

"And why should I?" her words came out lower than anticipated, and a slight thrill shook the girl's frame as electric-blue eyes deepened, lids lowering ever-so-slightly.

"Maybe because I'm just as curious about you as you are about me," he answered with an honesty neither of them expected. But it rang uncomfortably true and after the words were spoken he straightened slowly, looking away in the search for composure as he sought to loosen his tie the slightest bit.

"Oh."

The word was an exhalation of emotion and, pointedly not looking at her dinner companion, the heroine could feel a blush rising up from her neck to claim her ears, just barely covered as they were by the brush of short hair.

"_Fine_. Shoot. Not literally."

"You take all the fun out of things," he smirked, then lounging back against the booth he was sitting in, waved a hand through the air indolently, "what's your favorite color?"

"Light blue. Now wha-."

"Not purple or violet?" he interrupted, waving a hand at the light color of her outfit. She flushed at the sheer-too-close-to-home irony of his question, but ignored it in favor of saying.

"I believe that's another question, James. It's my turn now."

"Alright, I give," laughing internally at the turnaround, he stretched fully back in his seat, an imperceptible nod tossed off somewhere she couldn't see. But determination was pumping through the heroine's veins and she wasn't about to get distracted, posture as straight as a rod and entire being brimming with stifled curiosity.

"What…" the dark-haired girl slowly asked, "is the color of your _real_ hair?"

"My real hair?" James stalled, indolently. He was back to his lazy, lion-like confidence. Basking in the heat of her gaze as though it was African sunlight at midday.

"Yes," impatiently.

But she would have to wait a few minutes more, as at that exact second their waiter came with both beverages and their meals. A steak, very rare, with pasta on the side for him and simple chicken Alfredo for her. Their drinks were set down without a single click of glass on the surface of the table, and Violet caught James' short but approving look. A few minutes more passed under the sudden onslaught of tableware and savory tastes and smells. Accustomed as she was to him avoiding her questions, she almost forgot about their game for a moment as her earlier anxiety made her very hungry. But Violet was brought to a halt, twirled noodles halfway on their trip to her mouth, when she realized that he was watching her. What's more, he was watching her _eat_.

"What?"

"Red."

"What do you mean, 'red?'"

"Red. For your question," abruptly he smirked. And Violet wondered yet again at the desire to wipe it from his face either one way or another, "And here I thought you were eager for the truth. My answer is, 'red.'"

"Red," she repeated, doubtfully. Then epiphany came with the remembered feel of his hair tangled up in her fingers, their last kiss slowly escalating at the endorphins of the moment brought out a sudden desire to know everything about him.

_Just as she could sense what he was feeling, she had no doubts that he could see her own. So it was with a smile on her lips that she permitted him a wicked view of her own outlook. _Her fingers tangling within hair that was longer than his holograph showed, and more than ready for a cut._ A single thumb brushed across a hidden, scarred cheek, her eyes falling closed in an effort to create a mental image of his features and coming up with only an image of light stubble on a broad face._

_Red._ The answer to her first question was red.

Looking up, she noticed immediately that he was holding his breath, eyes focused somewhere distant and hand gripping his knife in a painfully tight grip. And when she focused on her feelings she realized that they were a mix of surprise, calculation, and strong attraction-emotions that were definitely not her own. Meaning that they were still connected and that she'd accidentally shared her memory of their kiss with him. Again.

Vi cleared her throat, trying to ignore the blush and embarrassment that had rolled over her, "But you've never…" She trailed off as she motioned towards his currently blonde looks, "but you've never indicated…"

"I try to avoid it if I can," he explained shortly. A little hoarsely.

"But…why?"

"Redheads stand out. It makes me too much of a target," and for some twisted reason he barked out a laugh at this, although it didn't quite make sense to her. So she dug a little deeper; dangerously deeper, she somehow knew.

"Is there any other reason?"

"Fire. It reminds me of fire," and abruptly his melancholy response disappeared in the wake of a smirk, "and be glad I gave you that much information. Those could've counted as two more questions on their own, and you know it."

"Well, it'd serve you right for tricking me into that other one, then. Whose turn is it, anyway?"

"Mine."

"Fine," she said, and tried to ignore again the attraction he was sending her as she took another bite to eat.

"How long have you been an active member of the NSA?"

"…what?" the air suddenly disappearing from her longs, Violet almost didn't understand the words as he spoke them. They were too close to home and they made sudden anxiety flare between them, shortening her breath. She could almost see him mentally swear at his poor choice of words, followed by the placing of his hand on hers, soothing reassurance making her unease dissipate.

"I meant…how old were you when you became a Super?"

Her shoulders slowly fell, breathing becoming easier. _That_ she could answer a little more comfortably, especially as her 'generation,' so to speak, was chock-full of teenage superheroes, "I was fourteen."

"Fourteen," he murmured, thoughtfully. Holographic eyebrows quirked somewhat ironically, followed by a smile that couldn't quite be counted as bitter or sweet.

"I kind of didn't have a choice-there was a void and I filled it."

And it really was that simple, 'Butterfly's words ringing true both vocally and through their connection. She could tell that he was surprised at her honesty, but even more than that he was surprised that he could somehow…_understand_ a Super? To comprehend her heroic reasoning and perhaps even…empathize and commiserate through their convoluted expressive echo?

It was an odd occurrence for him, she could tell, and if his sudden shifting was any indication she could tell that he wasn't quite comfortable with the experience.

"But you're retired now?"

"Mostly. I have a regular job and a regular life, but I get called in every now and again."

"Right."

"My turn," and if it was possible for any person to feel relieved at a change of subject, he definitely did at that moment. She could tell by the waves he was accidentally sending her, and so it was with a lighter heart that she asked, "what's your favorite pastime?"

"Pastime?" he grinned boyishly in a burst of surprise, setting down both knife and fork, "definitely inventing."

She took a sip of her now-lukewarm tea, "what do you like to invent?"

"All kinds of things. Tools and equipment and wea-_armor_," the short slip was ignored by the both of him as he continued enthusiastically, "but what I really love is taking things apart and putting them back together, only better."

His enthusiasm was infectious, and so she asked, "like what, microwaves and dryers?"

"Sometimes, but what I really love is computers. Rockets are fun, too, and security systems and remo-," halting himself abruptly, he coughed. And _through_ the holograph she could see him blush. Half of Violet was surprised at this breach while the rest could only be grateful; for other than his hands she'd never been able to see a single part of him. Making the blush all the more precious to her, "I'm rambling. You probably don't want to hear about any of that."

He tacked on that last bit as though accustomed to others blowing him and his ideas off; impatience causing them to miss out on the enthusiasm he was just beginning to reveal to her.

"I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't interested," was her humble, quiet response, and the light blue eyes that had been tracing the table in a large measure of self-conscious disquiet looked up optimistically; gratefully.

"And if I didn't think I would be using all my questions tonight then I would definitely take up this chance to investigate the subject thoroughly," she finished the previous thought, and when he dimmed ever so slightly, she added daringly, "but maybe we can save it for another day, right?"

"…another day," he tasted, slowly nodding as an open smile developed the tiniest bit. Another day meant a promise that they would see each other again. It was something he could definitely hold on to, and perhaps reward with his own light-hearted question, "right. Which reminds me-did you make that dress yourself?"

_Oh, dear._ A full-bodied blush covered her from head to toe, and feeling for a moment just like she had when they'd met Vi didn't quite know how to respond. Especially when he added, lowly, "I remember what you said. And I want to point out that when you get down to it we're pretty similar, wouldn't you think?"

"_I love the makeup, and the concept sketches, and seeing the finished project! And being able to see the models as real people, instead of stick figure mannequins, with hopes and worries of their own. I love being able to say, 'I created that. That was me,' and then releasing it out into the world like a butterfly from its cocoon. I love it all."_

"And if creative inventing is anything to go by, then I think you're a _fantastic_ inventor."

"O-oh…" she breathed shakily, "well, in that case, I did make it."

"For tonight…specifically?"

"Yes."

"…for _me_ to see?"

"Well," and suddenly the confidence of an artist and the strength of Invisigirl came back in full force, memory resurfacing, "I figured that to have an actual conversation with you I'd have to be able to breath, and breathing isn't exactly a priority when I'm wearing Mode's creations."

"Well, either way, it still makes for good luck for me," he mumbled, almost to himself, "…_again_."

"Oh."

She coughed.

"Me again. Did you always want to be an Inventor?"

"Yes. What about you? Did you always want to be a Designer?"

"Not always, no."

"What about a hero?"

"…no," she looked up, sensing yet again something deeper, "and you, did you always want to be a villain?"

His eyes softened, looking out the window and into what had become drizzly rain. And with the quiet honesty of one bearing their soul, he eventually spoke.

"No, I didn't."

Their questions continued more lightly but she couldn't get that response from her mind. And it even followed her as they individually finished their meals and she excused herself to use the ladies room and into yet another complication.

~/~/~

"Excuse me."

The words, softly spoken from Violet's back, surprised the young Super. And immediately she jumped, navy eyes wide. What they landed on were two dove-grey orbs, surrounded by wire-framed spectacles of an almost archaic design, and a pile of messy, mousy blonde hair.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was in the way."

"It's no trouble."

Swiftly moving from the sink, Violet paused on the way to the hand dryer, only to freeze mid-step as the secretary-like woman removed her glasses to wipe them clean; a single move which shocked the experienced hero into deadly stillness.

She was _Femme Fatale!_ One of the most dangerous Villains in the western hemisphere, she was wanted in twenty states, possessed several PHDs in various poison-related sciences, and held the record for fighting off the highest number of upper-level Supers at the same time.

Yet innocently the woman stood, dressed in a frumpy blouse and navy pencil skirt, conservative blue flats to match. Before her stood the woman Violet had fought off various times, but never fully defeated. One of the few she had never fully defeated.

Taking a chance, the young assistant opened her mouth to hesitantly speak, "Um, Miss?"

"Yes?" responding calmly, the Villainess looked up to smile in a purely benevolent fashion, even pausing to slip her spectacled mask back on.

A short falter, then, "this might seem somewhat out of the blue, but I was wondering if we knew each other from somewhere? I can't help but feel a sense of familiarity."

"Well," the woman across from her began, folding her hands calmly as though she was truly thinking of the matter, "we may have seen one another at the downtown library."

"The library?" of all the responses _Fatale_ could have given her, that was not of them.

"Yes," she nodded, messy bun bouncing in a schoolmarm-ish way, "I work there, in the children's section. And I have for, oh, five years now."

A sudden image of the woman stooping over Violet to help her set up her username and password on the library computers immediately rose to the surface. Without thought, she snapped her fingers as a counterpoint to her realization. All hero work aside, she _had_ seen the woman before! It had been _this_ scholarly woman that had walked her through the Dewey Decimal system, then later informed her brother of _Videogame Fridays_. And on infrequent, but not odd, cases, she could be seen talking with Violet's mother about bestsellers and different child care books, among other things.

In truth, one of her most challenging enemies was in actuality a librarian.

Shock wound its way through her system but the girl didn't let any of it show. Instead she pasted on her own neutral smile, a face she typically used for interviews and paparazzi photos, "that's it. I used to go to that library all the time before I graduated."

"Really? Congratulations," smiling in a purely maternal way, the soft features lowered in a nod, "and I was thinking that you seemed familiar as well. You cut your hair, though."

She had noted that, then? "Yeah. I decided that I was tired of it getting in my face all the time."

"I understand. That's the same reason I pull it back."

And with another bout of surprise, Vi realized that she hadn't ever seen the Villainess with her hair down, secret identity or no. It was always ponytails and clips, but never had the woman let its length down in front of the Super. Not even in battle.

It took a good deal of focusing for the young Super to return to the moment at hand, as _Femme Fatale_ continued speaking.

"Well, it was good seeing you. Give my regards to your mother, if you get the chance."

"I will," those were the last words to come out of her mouth before the librarian was gone, exiting through the restroom's still-swinging door. Leaving Violet behind with a lot to think about.

~/~/~

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into, do you?" stated calmly, nonchalantly from behind Buddy, the words were unexpected as his mind was occupied with the desert menu.

Turning a few degrees to the side, unmasked blue eyes met steel grey as he came face to face with one of the deadlier of their species.

"Were you talking to me?"

A deliberate glance at her own empty table followed by a distinctly sarcastic look was all the answer she gave. And for once he was glad the hologram hid his flush of color.

"You don't know what you're getting into with that girl, _Echo_. She recognized me in the ladies room. The _real_ me," seemingly calm, the fingers tightening on the back of her chair were the only sign of the rogue's discomfiture.

Oh, so _that_ was what it was all about. The broad was afraid his little pet would blow all their secret identities sky high, and take the restaurant with it. Eyes mentally rolling, Syndrome took a lounging, almost arrogant position without thought.

"If that's what this is about, then you can just relax. I mean, I _know_ what she is. And she kno-."

"You think you know what you're doing, but you have no idea what you're messing with," shaking her head ruefully, the pseudo-librarian looked almost mournful. For her, anyway. It was more emotion than he had ever seen appear on the super-powered woman's face, and despite himself an inkling of curiosity tugged at his frontal lobe.

"Okaaaaay. So, what are you talking about, then? _What_ am I messing with, exactly?"

Distaste colored her features as Buddy's attitude began to grate on the woman, but she set it aside for the greater evil, "Enjoy your plaything for a time, _Echo_, but see that we have no part of it. That _child_ you're manipulating has protectors, and if you hurt her, they will destroy you."

"Protectors?" shock glitched the hologram for a second's time, and Femme Fatale grimaced at the terrible image before the electricity came back online. The multi-millionaire chose to ignore her reaction, "What, wait. You mean she's part of a league or something?"

What came was outright hesitation, an expression he had never once see grace her face, then, after wetting her lips, words were spoken no higher than a whisper. As though they were a curse, and just speaking them aloud would earn her a swift beheading.

"Not a league. _A family_. I'm surprised that no one has spoken to you of them sooner. They…"

Silence passed for several seconds, then.

"I'm not getting any younger, librarian."

"They took out the last great Villain of the Golden Age!" irritably barked out, her words slowly petered off into quiet mourning, "…and the first one of the Silver. A youth whose name we honor in death. It was by _their_ hands that he perished, under fire."

_Last Villain of the golden age?_ Where in the crap had that come from? And _the first of the Silver?_ It was like he had to unearth a paper trail of news clippings every time one of his peers made an obscure reference. On one hand, Buddy could definitely understand a need for discretion, but the cryptic messages were really starting to get on his nerves.

_Wait just a minute._

When a Villain was arrested, the NSA usually took them into custody, since Supers were typically too self-righteous to execute judgment. The last official Villain to die had been…

_Him._

Oh, no. Not again.

Feeling once more like Alice in the looking glass, fate smiled a Cheshire grin his direction as irony fell over its own feet with maniacal laughter. And sitting one table over, _Femme Fatale_ smiled in quiet satisfaction at having silenced him. Not realizing the true ramifications of his shock.

Butterfly was the Invisibrat.

Buddy Pine, former fan of Mr. Incredible and self-proclaimed _Incrediboy_, later to become the man named _Syndrome_, then the criminal mogul _Echo_, swore under his breath.

_Femme Fatale_ merely motioned to the waiter for her check.

~/~/~

When Violet returned from the bathroom her date had a pensive look on his masked face. It was odd, and somehow didn't seem to fit the 'features' of the man she'd come to know, his blunt chin resting much like Rodin's "Thinker" upon his fist.

And as she took her place across from him, skirts swishing in a swirl of flowering layers, he looked up almost guiltily, in frustrated confusion. As though her reappearance brought on a contradiction of feelings to him, and he didn't know how to react. But one thing was certain, her friendly, wickedly funny companion was gone.

"What is it, James?"

The false name slipped easily to her lips, but as soon as the word was out she regretted it, watching him. His response had been to jerk in surprise, a frown worrying the spot between his eyes like a chisel in a rock face. And the false color disguising his hair seemed almost garishly golden under the cover of romantically dim lights.

"Sit down…Butterfly," and under his clear blue eyes-his real eyes all along-she felt very much like the delicate insect. Beautiful, fragile, but easily crushed beneath the gaze resting on her.

Vi sat, then waited. Ignoring the cold chill of the restaurant suddenly permeating the fabric of her dress, a light breeze brushing snake-like along the tips of her hair. Safety was fleeting, the Super realized in that moment.

And when safety no longer existed, the Super took over.

"Tell me what's wrong."

Her words were a steel bar, cold and cruel. And with a sweeping glance he recognized the switch. But this time there wasn't going to be an effort towards removing it. Playtime had abruptly ended, and with it her footing. The fall of reality had come for the both of them, like a pendulum swinging ever-closer.

"This isn't going to work."

They were words she'd heard a dozen times, from a dozen different boys. Tony had been one of the few to not use them, and in the presence of James' words she couldn't help but mentally thank him for his mercy. For if what she felt at that exact moment was a heart breaking, she didn't think she could have handled it happening twice.

"Why?" the question stopped him cold. His wide orbs blinking and mouth momentarily slack, she asked again, "why isn't this going to work?"

The burly man blustered for an answer, "I'm a Villain, you're a Super."

"So?"

"So do you _really_ think the fairytale you've been spinning would last forever? I _hate_ you. And _all_ you represent. And you hate me," Buddy could feel himself lie as he spoke the words, and for one of the few times in his life as he felt the harsh eye of the _Greater Good_ glaring down at him he actually felt guilty and remorseful.

But couldn't it see that what he was doing _was_ for the greater good?

After all Buddy, Syndrome, and Echo alike despised Mr. Incredible with every fiber of their being. And with him, his family. But Butterfly wasn't the Super; _Invisigirl_ was. And the girl sitting sweetly before him, the one who had held back her powers in their duel and joked and played, didn't deserve the death he may have planned for her in the past.

If he was truly being evil, manipulating the girl would have been an _easy_ feat. But long minutes of thinking had led his mind back to the only option that was open. Separation. Even if it forced him back into the position of a lying, deceitful Villain again.

_I must be getting soft,_ the criminal had no choice but to admit, _for me to rely on being cruel, to be kind. And for what? The brat of my most hated enemy. A __**kid**__._

"Once we knew each others' identities we would have been at each others' throats anyways."

Attempting to emphasize the words being spoken, he slammed a freckled hand down on the table, trying to intimidate the woman he had so recently wooed. But all that was portrayed was that he was trying to make noise, "things would have fallen apart eventually, and you _know_ it. You've probably even known it from the beginning, haven't you."

It was a statement, not a question. And with it the Assistant abruptly felt very tired. Of life, and of everything.

"You're a Villain; I'm a Super. The thought _did_ come to mind," The words were parroted back at him, lifelessly, emotionlessly, yet she could tell they struck deep. As deep as the words he'd callously tossed at her.

The duo became unified in their silence. He clenching and unclenching his fists, while she stared at the table. When the awkward silence became too much, Syndrome rose gracelessly. A high-end note was left at the table to pay for the meal, and wordlessly they rose to retrieve their coats. Sensing that something was wrong, the observant host, switched from their previous attendant to a much younger gentleman, had graciously called a Taxi for Violet, so all they had left to do was stand there and wait, confusion, anger and sorrow warring back and forth.

With the sky growing darker, and the night getting colder, Violet tried one last move. She had to know…

"At least tell me why. _Really why_, James," a petal-soft hand rested itself on the thick fabric draping his forearm while large, doe eyes peered deep into his soul. And for once in his life, Buddy Pine regretted a decision he'd made. It was that regret that made him speak, standing deep within the restaurant awning's shadow, arm itching to wrap around her slim form. But fighting the longing with clenched jaw.

"Because you're _his_ kid. And he destroyed me."

Shock, hurt, and dismay were the last emotions the scientist saw passing over her vision, before he turned on his heel and walked out into the darkness. Leaving the stunned girl to her waiting cab.

~/~/~

AN: The creation of Femme Fatale as a librarian in disguise is a reference to Brandon Sanderson's Alcatraz books. =^_^= Go read them-they're good!)

A French host at an Italian restaurant. XD I kill myself sometimes. And I hope you enjoyed the Pyramus and Thisbee/Romeo Juliet/Midsummer Night's Dream reference (you know what I'm talking about if you've seen the movie version of the last title. ^^; I think I spelled Pyramus and Thisbee's names incorrectly, though.)

I liked the beginning and the end the most. The middle was kinda all like, "and now I'm flirting," "and now I'm flirting back." And I've never really enjoyed PDA in real life, so I can't see me enjoying it in my writing. –shrugs-

Oh, and sorry kids-the story can't be happy _all_ the time. ^^; I actually really, really enjoyed writing this, by the way. And I pretty much knew this was going to end up occurring from the start. ("Scenes from an Italian Restaurant." Sound Familiar?) Don't worry, though, it's not completely ended.


	5. Goodbye and Hello

**Masks**

By Shahrezad1

Disclaimer: They belong to another. I'm borrowing them for a time, but I promise to give them back.

Summary: "You finally figured it out, didn't you?"

~/~/~

Chapter 5: Goodbye and Hello

"_Goodbye, my Almost Lover._

_Goodbye, my hopeless dream._

_I'm trying not to think about you,_

_Can't you just let me be?_

_So long, my luckless romance,_

_My back is turned on you._

_Shoulda known you'd bring me heartache,_

_Almost Lovers always do."_

_-__**Almost Lover**__, A Fine Frenzy_

~/~/~

The emotions between them were fainter after that. Since the 'falling out,' as she'd come to think of it, the Villain had removed the gem from his heart, tiny carved pieces carefully collected and sent to Violet's workplace and abode via plain package. And when Edna had seen what had become of her precious family heirloom she had been half exasperated and half admiring at the ingenuity of the thing. For while the amethyst had definitely been destroyed, each of the microscopic pieces had been carved into their most refined form, making them ideal for the laser-cutting work within her lab. A consolation prize for the entrepreneurial artist.

As for Violet, she'd been allowed to keep two chips for herself, the fashion designer seeing their importance to the girl. The amethyst shards had been turned into tiny studs for her ears, each hardly bigger than a grain of sand. It was a drastic change in fashion statement from the jewelry she typically wore, her peers often remarked. But Vi didn't care-she knew where they had come from. And where, for months, they had lain in the chest cavity of her mysterious masked admirer, keeping him connected to her.

They were all she had as a reassuring promise that they would meet up again.

But still the wait and the loneliness ate at her, the loss of constant companionship gnawing out a cavern of anxiety and wordless sorrow in her gut. Her peers and coworkers seemed not to notice it at first, but as weeks passed by and things only grew darker, dimmer, and her designs took on a lifeless quality, they began taking note. Even the most apathetic and self-oriented of them all began expressing concern, a concern they would normally never convey.

Then one spring morning, with the sun bearing down on her East-facing windows, she was summoned by E via elegant note, words tumbling down a delicate haiku of thought as calligraphy passed by her eyes like a waterfall in motion.

_The sapling searches_

_For peace, the oak spreads her leaves,_

_And shares the sunlight_

Sighing, Violet made her way to the room enclosed in glass in much the same manner many had walked to the gallows. The long walk down familiar hallways to Edna's open-air parlor was a short one, however, and soon enough the girl found herself sitting directly across from her inquisitor.

"Vi, dahling. Something is _wrong_."

"I'm ok-."

"It wasn't a question!" strident, queenly tones came from the diminutive figure, interrupting Violet's self-denial. And under the force of the fashion designer's thunderous proclamation the younger woman found she had nothing to say.

Because something _was_ wrong.

And it really couldn't be made right.

"These are for you," and then a slate colored file folder fell directly upon the coffee table in front of her. When the Super failed to pick it up, E motioned her onward, eyes hugely insistent behind thick black frames, "go on, read it, dahling."

Sighing, she flipped open the light cardstock…and instantly recoiled.

Edna Mode had handed her a folder packed with layer upon layer of typed documents and 8X10 photographs, and on the very top of the stack lay the print of a bloodied form, limbs in emergency splints. The figure was attached to a respirator and the visible areas of his (assuming it was a him) skin looked to have been torn in areas. Gashes marred ankles and calves below the blanket which modestly covered his torso, but they seemed almost random in appearance. And while his hands remained largely unharmed, the rest of his form (and even his face) resembled an image she'd seen once, a very long time ago. A vague shadow of a man she couldn't quite recognize.

"Who-?"

"Next page."

The following shot was of a man in a wheelchair and what looked like blue pajamas. Everything but his hands were wrapped in gauze, skin wise, and blurred within the camera's lens there existed a pencil, twirled within the grasp of his fingers. There was also a sketchpad in his lap, but even from the distant view of black and white photographic memory she could tell that the page was blank, and probably had been for a while. But still, the images made no sense.

"Why did you…?" she began, quietly. She'd expected a tirade upon receiving the summons from her teacher and employer, for her recent distraction if nothing else, and what she was getting instead was information on someone she'd never met.

"Keep reading. I vhent to a lot of effort, so you might as well finish zhe whole thing."

So she did, and tucking her head low Violet felt her horror turn into something else unknown as she continued examining photograph against photograph, and read the accounts of testimonials and anonymous reports alike.

From the doctors reports it sounded as though the patient had been tortured alive, a literal lions' den of puncture wounds piercing him from head to toe, and damaging even the most protected of organs. Half of their replacements were flesh, but she couldn't help but notice a series of notes involving plastic and metal replacements. Woven patches for a pierced lung, mechanical supports for an offset joint. Substitute hair had been created using a synthesized version of a dna complex, and Violet found herself suddenly engrossed as she meandered her way through the multidirectional writing. It was always hurried, letters missing their ascenders and descenders many times in the author's intent to convey a specific burst of thought. But she found herself gaining an insight into the individual's personality as previous concepts were scratched out nearly dozens of times before being rewritten; until perfection was found.

He or she was perfection personified, Violet realized, like the sun's energy focused through a surgeon's laser. And, so engrossed in thought, she never noticed the transition as the doctor's notes became fewer and fewer. Replaced, as it were, by the brilliant handwriting alone. When Vi finally did look up, Mode anticipated her next question before she could ask it.

"The the designs were made by the patient," with a tiny hand she motioned towards to photographic images in the front, "he was a charity case, found on the outskirts of Metroville. But as soon as he could move he drew _these_, and the hospital created the pieces for him. They gave him back the original designs, but made copies with his permission. And they were created for non-Supers only."

Surprised, the assistant's eyes and mouth fell open. E only nodded.

"There is no compensation for additional muscular friction. The alloys are kinds Superhero cells normally reject as foreign. And I think it was intentional, dahling," sighing, she steepled her hands together, lost in thought, "One day he left, half-healed. The same week a new Villain appeared. Echo."

"Echo?" the dark-haired girl repeated, eyebrows furrowing in thought. It wasn't a well-known supervillain, she knew. During the course of her 'work experience' she'd been introduced to most of them. So where had she heard that name before? In a flash she recalled a suddenly fearful thug, eyes desperately aimed around him rather than at the ball of collective energy she'd held.

'_Please. Just let arrest me. He'll kill me if he knows I failed. Just don't leave me on the streets for him to find.'_

The heroine had been confused at the time, and more than a little shocked by his willingness to be taken, _'who'll kill you? What are you talking about?'_ He'd just been a simple jewel thief, nothing more. And he's stolen the most bizarre collection of obscure stones, most of them not even worth more than twenty-five dollars a piece. Pawnshop theft, it had even seemed like. But something at the time had made him as fearful as a bank robber.

'_He…I…I can't say. He'll kill me. Just, please take me in. I'll do five to life, whatever you want.'_

But before she'd had a chance to respond something had skittered across the cement wall like a spider, latching itself on the back of his brain stem. And in the horror of the situation she could hear the petty criminal scream out only one word, ironic as it reverberated through the backstreets.

_Echo._

He'd been alive afterwards, but barely. And after weeks in the hospital the man had come out with nothing to show for it but a scar at the base of his neck. And no memory of what had happened, or of his life at all. The judge had released the wannabe villain and the last time she'd checked he was living a happy, fulfilling life of wife and family. Violet liked to check in every now and again, just to see how her former opponent was doing, and one time she'd asked if he would ever go back; try to find regain his memories.

He said he wouldn't. And the nightmares he had of the name 'Echo' guaranteed it.

Which led her back where she'd started.

"Den dah weapons appeared on the street. Weapons dat only hurt Supers, without hurting zivilians. And those who killed for zport disappeared."

Epiphany warred with rising horror as Violet's memories started clicking into place, realizing just where Edna was going with her words, "I remember that. My Senior year of highschool they all just…vanished. And the bad guys were still there, but…"

"Not as dangerous."

"And then they found Bomb Voyage, killed with one of his own weapons."

"An _old_ weapon, used once before. A reclaimed bomb," nodding sagely, the Japanese-German designer reached over for her cigarette holder by way of habit, only to stop herself in a bout of self-control Violet admired. Instead she turned to nibble on some edamame, "only one photograph has evah been taken of this Echo, and zhe NSA buried it in red tape before it could be seen. But I convinced Mr. Dicker to let me borrow it. Here, turn to the last page."

The last image in the folder was a lightly pixilated amalgamation of two facial images, jarring at first glance. But as she continued to examine it Vi noticed the relatively clean break between the two of their nearly identical expressions. Expressions which echoed some sort of intelligent distraction, mouth ajar in speech.

A pin created to resemble the Eye of Ra, simplified in design yet still recognizable, rested on his lapel, although what attracted her gaze were his eyes.

They were clear and determined, constantly moving and thinking and calculating. This was James, no doubt about it. But her knowledge of him as a Villain-albeit a fairly important Villain, as she'd seen from the reactions at the restaurant-has risen to that of Crime Lord. The moment she was seeing, a mere glitch in the holographic system, revealed him clear as day. With one side dark and black haired and the other light and scarred.

James was Echo who was the patient who was the note-writer. He was brilliant and intelligent and horribly tortured. And violet knew like she knew her own name that she should be scared to find out more. Yet still she focused on the photograph, digging deeper for the underlying truth he'd always hidden from her.

It burned through her senses as memory took over, filling in the blanks and smoothing over time. The information she'd gleaned from their seond game of cat and mouse was also thrown into the mix, too.

"…_what color is your real hair?"_

"_Red."_

"_But you've never…but you've never indicated…"_

"_...redheads stand out. It makes me too much of a target."_

"_Is there any other reason?"_

"_Fire. It reminds me of fire."_

Fire. Somehow that word stuck in her thoughts the way it hadn't before. Why was it so important? What could possibly be served by searching for information on fire?

And what was more, fire had been in her life perpetually since the age of fourteen. There was nothing remarkable about explosions, particularly in her line of work. So why…?

Fire. Hair that reminded her of flames. There was only ever one man whose hair could even been described with the term, but he'd died _years_ ago. Hadn't he? And then there were actually explosions—the biggest and most traumatizing one she could remember had involved his ship blowing up. Blowing up and destroying their home, their car, and leaving shattered shrapnel behind. They'd explained it as a gas leak and their home owner's insurance had gotten them a new place, but she couldn't forget the feeling of walking through the debris of her personal belongings and finding pieces of molded steel and circuitry within.

It was a memory buried too deep.

Some memories couldn't be forgotten.

But then…

Focusing again on the mug shot of her former…whatever they had been, Violet slowly closed one eye; the eye that saw the fake face. Even going so far as to cover that side of the picture print, she aimed all her being on remembering something she hadn't quite forgotten.

"_At least tell me why. Really why, James."_

"_Because you're his kid. And he destroyed me."_

Blue eyes. Red hair. Freckles and scars.

James was Syndrome.

The man she'd fallen in love with was _Syndrome_.

_James_ was **SYNDROME**.

Feeling herself beginning to take on the early stages of shock, Vi vaguely felt the paper slipping through her fingers before it fell the ground, like the last leaf before winter. E merely waited. Waited for the truth to sink in and for the original images of the tortured patient to connect with later information. And within the young woman's mind a vision of all their interactions, from the freckled hands to the pain-filled connections, and lastly on to his intelligent, mathematical mind. She remembered the original jewel-heist, and how he'd lulled her into security with his joking words and impulsive kiss before disappearing with the amethyst. His alternating kindness and cruelty. The dual nature of their flirtation, and how he never quite acknowledged her being a Super or even that she had any powers at all. It was almost as though he ignored their existence.

Until it was too late.

The silence drew between student and mentor as the truth sunk in, Violet alternately denying and accepting what was glaring fact. Finally resignation settled in, like the realization of a relative's death.

She couldn't change it. And it wasn't as though she didn't know he was a Villain from the start. She had made her bed, and whether she wanted to or no she would sleep in it.

And even knowing he was Syndrome, she couldn't stop what she felt. Even with the knowledge of those he had killed, she couldn't halt the feelings coursing through her. Nor end the sorrow for her suddenly even more tragic situation.

"I nevah married, Vi," her mentor interrupted quietly, tiny hands clasped in a very Japanese-like fashion as her explosive German side was tucked away. And for the first time in a long time Violet saw her take her glasses off and carefully set them aside, like the props in a play. Without that barrier her face seemed very delicate, skin a pale porcelain and forehead wide and large without black frames to interrupt it, "but it is not because I nevah loved. And I have nevah given birth, but that does not mean I have no children."

Bittersweet warmth colored the accented words, and when Vi looked up it was to find E's eyes on her, half-lidded with soft affection.

"I will give you the best advice I can give, dahling, based on life wizhout these experiences. And I hope you can zhee what you need to do from it," breathing deeply, Edna closed her eyes for a moment of self-induced solace, then opened them again and smiled, "he is hurting. You can heal him. I tested the crystal, and vhat it does is amplify. Zhe new aspect of your powers is healing, dahling. And so it is zhat it amplifies _healing._"

That night Violet dreamt of him as he was, a simple man with jagged red hair, walking along an empty stretch of beach, hand in hand.

The next day she knew what she had to do.

~/~/~

Finding 'Echo' was both difficult and surprisingly easy. She could find traces of his influence nearly everywhere, now that she was looking for it, and as of lately the insignia of the eye of Ra had been appearing on almost every weapon she confiscated.

Edna had given her an undetermined leave of absence during her search as she again took up hero work, and Violet had used the time alternately for both self-reflection and searching. She'd even quizzed the one man who knew Syndrome best—her father. Even those his interactions with the individual had been when they were both much younger. She'd collected personal information, personality traits, and childhood anecdotes. But when her father had queried her reasons she hadn't been able to answer. Or to even _begin_ to make him understand.

Her mother had some sort of inkling, however, and during this time offered both support and a list of suggested contacts that were still relevant. Knowing without words that something had changed in their carefree daughter, turning her into a driven 'adult' overnight.

And the contacts had proved to be exactly what she needed, one of the men having overheard on the street something about the supposed haunting of an old high-rise office building, its interior bought out by a private investor for storage of all things. But despite its lack of occupants, lights had been known to flick constantly on and off, bizarre power outages plaguing the area.

Another tipoff was the decided lack of crime in the area. It seemed almost odd at first that no gang activity, petty theft, or illegal trafficking existed there, but from a privacy perspective she could understand. And, additionally, if anyone ever came calling (just as she was doing now), it was one of the last places one would normally search. Making it the ideal location for a reclusive Villain with disfiguring scars and a penchance for mechanical tinkering.

The 'haunted' nature of the location helped too, she thought with a shiver, because as a Super one never knew when a rumor like that was actually truth. But she wouldn't let it deter her, she'd decided when she'd first come across the place. Months had passed since their last interaction, but she still hadn't been able to get him out of her mind.

Literally. Because in the time since Edna had handed her that deciding folder of information the 'attacks' and nightmares had begun again, only in miniscule proportions. He was still in pain and it was getting worse, but every time she tried to connect with him a proverbial door slammed. But where they'd been previously connected by a telephone wire, with the Amethyst Eye removed they were only tied together by a thread.

But a thread was still a lead. And when she'd gotten wind of the possible 'hideout,' she'd started doing a few tests, seeing just how strong their connection became the closer she got. Until there really was no doubt in her mind.

All she had left to do was take action, and the night after a particularly strong impression of anguish (relative in comparison to the ghost-feelings she'd been slowly gaining access to) she exited Edna Mode's abode, hopped a bus, changed into her supersuit and headed uptown, to a lesser-used section of the city.

It was quiet as she found the building's entrance, and entering carefully through the combined efforts of powers and lock-picks, she found herself surprised at the simplicity of her break-in. There were no sensors and no cameras; it was almost as though someone _wanted_ her to break in, or at least didn't care anymore.

She feared for the latter.

What followed was an almost labyrinthine adventure through stacked boxes and crates. When one tipped over in the wake of her journey, however, she was surprised to find it empty. While many others, upon examination, only held technological junk.

Certainly there were no shipments of weaponry present, but the kinds of storage within the building was in and of itself suspicious, like the decoy for something bigger.

Strangely enough the elevator still was turned on and, going up one, two , and three levels without any sign of entry or human life. But she searched each floor faithfully with her trusty, old-fashioned flashlight, regardless. And it was in one of these searches that she found what she was looking for.

The stack of boxes, shoved into the space of what had once been a corner office, sat innocently enough. But as her eyes spanned over them on the way to the desk she halted upon seeing a tiny logo, printed on the cardboard siding and no bigger than her thumb.

The Eye of Ra-Echo's symbol-stood out darkly to her, nearly sucking in the light, and when Violet attempted to remove the objects and perhaps find something behind them she found they were immovable. And apparently filled with concrete. But, stepping, back in order to more fully examine the situation, she quickly realized that they resembled stairs. Stairs which led to nowhere, really, and pointing up towards a ceiling made of the removable tile most older office buildings were filled with.

But when she attempted to free the furthermost panel it lifted with ease, revealing a hidden attic that was as far from being unoccupied as one could get. And built into the steel girding was a walkway through the mess, neatly avoiding the gaping holes in the "floor" she knew existed as traps. Long wires, alight with active electricity, hung like vines throughout the hidden room, giving her only the faintest of glows to walk by.

The path led to another series of 'roads', which she followed as she did her best to ignore the mounting claustrophobia. And as she paced the precariously positioned, hanging plated sidewalk, Violet again questioned herself one last time.

Or, more accurately, Invisigirl made a return as she questioned Violet one last time.

_Are you sure you know what you're doing? You could be walking right into a trap._

_ I probably am_, was her thoughtful response.

_Then why? Why are you chasing after some mass murderer, particularly after her threw back into your face everything you know was wrong with your 'relationship' from the start?_

_ I need closure, that's all._

And somehow that mollified the over-reactive, paranoid, battle-ready side of her persona. Because in truth the Superhero side was somewhat perplexed, too. His actions towards her, as Butterfly, didn't fit his MMO, especially in light of his identity. Syndrome hated Supers, bar none, but Mr. Incredible most of all. So when he discovered her real identity he should have set her up for complete annihilation through the most painful process possible.

Should have, but _hadn't_.

He'd even been somewhat gentlemanly about it, she'd realized in hindsight. Respecting her enough to break things off before they could get worse, and not turning her over to his allies even after she had willingly walked into a den of vipers.

So was it a good thing or a bad thing to go after him? She didn't know. In fact, her uncertainly was the only thing she _was_ sure of. Because while she cared about him as James, she feared him as Syndrome. And as Echo she didn't know what to think. Sure, he was still an active force against Supers but his methods had definitely changed. Not involving bystanders, protecting the innocent, making improvements to the medical field, and remaining unobtrusive in his methods.

There was no flash and no sparkle to his 'career' as Echo. He was, quite literally, his name; an echo of his former self, a hidden shadow that observed first before acting. Those who were on the streets feared his presence, but were simultaneously those that reaped the benefits of his work. The benefits of _organizing_ the organized crime, being the peacekeeper among the riffraff, and setting standards of a kind among the thieves and dilettantes.

Still, despite his renewed walk down the "straight and narrow," so to speak, it wasn't as though they could be together; he'd definitely been right about that, and she wasn't even sure if she wanted things that way. It would mean one of them would have to give in; to forfeit not just their lifestyle but also their inherent beliefs, a sacrifice Violet could never make.

So closure didn't quite mean what she'd told 'herself,' that it meant. And maybe it was an excuse to hash it out, or maybe it was so that she could make her last goodbye. It could even be the opportunity to confront him on his two-faced nature.

Either way, closure just mean one last time of…_something_. Without masks, either one of them. Proverbially speaking as well as literally, she thought as she absently touched the edge of the one she wore.

But maybe in wearing her mask she was doing the opposite of what had occurred on their first meeting. Maybe she was finally facing a side of herself that she'd tried to ignore in favor of the lovely world of fashion?

A side he _needed_ to see. Just as she needed to know what had really happened to him, from his own lips.

The path diverged and, sighing, Violet took a left and was immediately within an open area, the floor a solid steel now. Computer screens filled the circular room like mirrors on every side, or perhaps eyes following her progress. In the central area there was a massive console, littered with broken keyboards and exposed wires. Tools were strewn throughout the area and she couldn't help but compare this to his island base and finding the former lacking.

There was no grace to the area, and no elegance. Only…survival. And upon closer examination of the screens she found each of the most problematic areas of the city on surveillance, key characters highlighted in specifically designated colors based on their lethalness and violence. The computers were touch screen, specifically, and she observed a designated "notes" section of each one, scribbled writing scrolling and disappearing and reappearing based on their connection to the individuals that appeared within the camera's view.

It was the same handwriting as the Patient.

A part of her insecurity exited with the sigh she let out. At least one thing had definitely been confirmed with her own two eyes, even if it was a fact she had already known. Now to figure out the rest. A groan, however, broken what would have been her search, and Vi whirled immediately into a battle stance, only to fall immediately back.

It was him.

Without a hologram to disguise him, and completely unconscious. And in those final seconds she allowed herself to see the man she'd fallen in love with, whole and unhidden.

Or not quite whole, as it were.

He was scarred; horribly scarred. Her hands shaking as she couldn't help being drawn in, Violet drew closer. Attempting to be clinical in her examination, effectively cutting off her own feelings. But she couldn't help but immerse herself in memories. Memories of pain and horror.

_The impressions were stronger then, the colors brighter, but the sea of pain jarred so much that she was left with fragmented half-dreams, half-nightmares. Nothing she could cement down, except to say that somewhere out there existed a being in such pain that all else failed in comparison. A pain that begged for release through their silent, always bittersweet, connection._

The urge to cry pulled at her vocal cords but she couldn't release it, watching him merely breathe harshly among the debris. A broken figure crashed to the floor amid the remnants of his passionate creativity. Yet still she observed.

_Today was just another day in the long months she'd become accustomed to. Sitting at the work bench in her private quarters, fighting the urge to collapse to the floor and writhe in excruciating, skin-piercing anguish, in favor of silent, lung-collapsing sobs. Tears streaming down her cheeks until they were chapped and stinging with the raw onslaught of salt water._

Jagged tears marked themselves down his cheeks in the form of whitened scars, pulling from eyebrows to broad chin. His hair existed as an extinguished flame, once-even hairline jagged and peaked more sharply on the left hand side. And where one cheekbone should have existed she could see metal supports, a patchwork of girding extending on the right. Likewise through the gaping holes of the bandages he bore as his uniform showed muscles stretched taut by steel joints, freckled skin replaced by wired muscle and electronic bone.

_Still, the dark haired young woman remained stoically silent, bearing the horrific assault of emotion in the name of an unknown other._

All limbs were present and accounted for, but the only untouched area of his entire form seemed to be his hands. Skin healthy and warm beneath her gaze, but steadily cooling as his body seemed to shut down like one of his many computers.

_The remotes_, she realized. They had protected his hands and possibly kept him from death, but not enough to shield away the shrapnel of an exploding jet plane. He'd been pulled into death's pit and essentially spat back out again, yet had survived. Survived and moved on to become even more influential than he had been before, if not in ways he'd probably anticipated.

Abruptly several of the computer screens sputtered into tentative life, dim color focusing to become more vibrant. A stand of dark switches flickered into the 'on' position, the words, 'INTRUDER DETECTED,' passing over in hesitant script before steadying into a blurred, constant cycle. No sound filled the room, however, except his stifled gasps. There was truly nothing to distract her, however, when his eyelids flickered open, Violet's breath almost entirely held back.

They were blue and glazed, but quickly clearing.

And soon glaringly focused.

Violet sighed under the flame of his anger.

"Hello, Syndrome."

~/~/~

She was there.

It was the kind of truth that when stated in an empty room seemed to echo until it couldn't be denied. Not with the effect she was having on him, waking up senses he'd long since thought buried. Her existence brought consciousness to him, but also a sudden awareness of the pain he'd become numb to. Hurt he'd hoped to finally ditch in his last big adventure.

The young woman stared down the short length of her nose, mask a distinct barrier between them as it stood like a stamp on her features. Expression was muffled, emotion buried deep, and as Buddy stared up into orbs that seemed as cold and cool as chips of dark sapphire stone, he found that he hated the blasted disguise and all it represented. It had been a mask that had first cursed him, then a mask that had twisted him into the insidious creature he now was. And yet it was this last mask that was bestowing the death blow.

The Villain waited in silence, eyes blue as a river of slow-moving ice and expression deadened as he lay, collapsed against the remains of his computer console. He distantly remembered falling against it as his legs had collapsed in on themselves, keypad and notebook flying who knew where. Sparks now lit at his elbows and around his face, making his nerve endings twitched reflexively. But the rest of his energy was spent.

The remnants of the Amethyst Eye were drained, his synapses screaming as they slowly collapsed under the lack of energy pulsing through, heart faltering once, then twice, and a third before jolting back into gear, lungs opening a fraction of their capacity as they clutched for air.

"…In-Incre..ble."

"That is not my name," the heroine whispered as tonelessly as an uncaring breeze. And then she took a step forward.

Heat immediately shook the man once called Buddy, blessed heat alternately heating and freezing in a single moment, a return to feeling in fingers and toes. They twitched, then clenched when she took a step forward, brushing the pads of her fingers against his ragged bandaging.

"You finally figured it out, didn't you? That what powered the Amethyst was me. You sent them back; you _chose_ to let go. Without me you're dying," a slight tightening of his eyebrows answered her. And then without warning his enemy's daughter touched her lips to his. Fitting her petal-soft cupid's bow to his sneering tug of flesh.

Instantly a gasp of air was torn from her to him, his pain tingling up the lines of touch to her brain endings, where they settled like carrion birds. Unmasked, he sensed the exact moment in which she could feel the intermixed feelings of betrayal, hatred, self-loathing, and unwilling desire running from Syndrome to her. And likewise she knew that he could feel her sorrow, horror, sadness, and bittersweet longing. For although he had removed most of the chips, there yet remained a single one. And that one still connected them in a way far more intimate than any mere empathic tie. They'd been apart for too long, and it seemed like in those seconds of overload the mythical object was making up for lost time, washing away the proverbial poison in his bloodstream for new and clean waters; her soul refining his by fire.

They remained that way for who knows how long, no longer physically connected but close enough to nearly be. The girl had begun to examine every flaw that existed on his person, wincing in sympathy as though it was her own experience she was feeling. And Syndrome couldn't find the strength to push her away; not when she'd been the one to come to _him_.

When she began tracing the scars running down his face with the pads of her fingers, however, he had to say something or go insane.

"I hate you."

"No you don't," she murmured, moving from just outlining their whitened lines to rubbing her thumbs along their length as though in doing so she could erase them. Nothing changed for the Villain, however where her now-ungloved touched seemed to heat then rapidly cool, erasing the headache pounding through his skull

"I should _hate_ you. _Hate_ you for being the daughter of the man who _tore me apart_, limb from limb. I should _hate_ you for the anguish you've cause me, the way I hate all the others," he barked out an ironic laughing, trying to scare her off with his next words and knowing that she knew of the fact. But the knowledge still wouldn't deter him from trying. Trying to end it all before the Incredibles girl could make things worse, "all the ones I killed but who are still laughing at me from the grave."

"I know what you are, Syndrome, and I've known for a while. I also know how you've changed and helped on the streets. You can't frighten me," the dark haired angel whispered, and he marveled for a moment how much her hair had changed since he had last seen her. The pixie cut had grown till it was shoulder length and curled outward, looking so much like her mother's when she was young that it hurt to look at it.

He coughed out a laugh, noticing absently when the blood in his throat abruptly stopped coming up, replaced with regular saliva. She was healing him, piece by piece, whether he wanted to be healed or not, "no, of course not. Heaven forbid you be afraid of the man who tried to murder your entire family."

"Plenty of men have tried to kill my family."

"And how many of them have you kissed?"

Heat replaced the healing coolness of their connection and, blushing far past the edges of her mask, she answered quietly, "only one. There's only _ever_ been one. The only one to have kissed me, period."

_Only one._

_Dangit._

"Brilliant. Just brilliant."

"Yeah, the whole situation's pretty screwed up, isn't it?" she finally asked in some semblance of the Butterfly he knew, making Pine look up. And almost in answer to the energy being shared between them another series of workstations turned on, the supercomputer it was all connected to finally finding enough power to begin its basic protocols.

"Screwed up. That's a good word for it. Yet here you are now.

"Yet here I am now."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Well, that certainly hadn't been what he'd expected. But what _had_ he been expecting? A declaration of love? Some sort of promise that he would help him destroy his nemesis, Mr. Incredible himself?

Unlikely and unthinkable.

"Yep. We're screwed. And have been since the beginning. Because there you were and there I was, thinking I was dreaming about some sweet little nobody," he paused, tasting the words as though remembering her own taste, fervor dying for just a moment before he stirred it back up, like a fire gone cold, "and then it turned out to be _you._ And even _knowing_ _that_ I can't stop the dreams from coming," a sigh, "and you know what, you're right. I _don't_ hate you. But what I do hate is that I _CAN'T_ hate you. I hate that I _can't_ cut you out of my life, like the pestilent _disease_ you are. Sucking me dry, down to the bone and marrow."

"Thank you."

~/~/~

And she meant it.

His self-aimed rage continued on, but instead she was focusing on something other than his anger, dark eyes lightening several shades from behind her mask, "wait, what do you mean? Did you…were you dreaming about me again?"

Realizing just what he'd said, her nemesis recoiled automatically. As far as his body would allow him. Which was actually more movement than he'd been able to display in a long time, the feel of her presence restarting his physical processes and warming up muscles.

"What? _No!_ I-!"

"As a _regular_ person. Did you dream about me like I was human, not a Super? The _real_ me?" she had to know. She had to know if he had shared that same dream, the turning point in her decisions.

"A beach? Did you dream about a beach?"

His eyes avoided hers, form half-turned away. But she could tell "Look, does it really matter? What's done is done and I have an appointment with death after this, so can you just leave and _let me go_. Or at least do the job yourself. Please. I just…want it to end."

It was the only honest request he'd made of her, and the pleading within it almost swayed her. He was just in so much pain. A pain she could literally feel, her hand on his chest. But…

"I can't do that."

"Why?"

"Because I was dreaming about you, too."

"_What?_"

"Walking hand and hand under the sun."

"…"

"J-_Buddy_-."

"…don't call me that," his words were forced, a whisper no louder than the hum of electronics as his work station came back online. And then he tried to fully turn his back on her, the breadth of his shoulders stiff within her gaze. Half-bandaged, she could see the scars puckering his sepulcher-white skin, the light dusting of freckles even lighter where his body had been forced to heal. Ignoring the seeming insurmountable barrier, however, Violet placed one hand flat against the tortured skin. And though the tired villain hissed as though in pain, she could feel his skin warm beneath the pads and palm of her hand; their connection heightening the relief he was being washed with as she siphoned out the dregs of oncoming death.

"Why? It wasn't Syndrome that flirted or kissed me. Or even Echo-I've seen his hand in the entire city, but never in your interactions with me. The man I met, the man I fell in love with, was _James_. But James is just a name for Buddy. I fell in love with him; no one else."

And daringly, she took the situation a step further as she drew herself flush against his back, arms wrapping around his ribs to rest on that tentatively pulsing heart. He stiffened completely, but Vi ignored this as she felt her own feelings begin to physically and emotionally heal him. The desire to _make him better_ washing over them both until they were literally cocooned within it.

"I'm so tired of masks and pseudonyms. Why can't we just be who we are? Violet…and Buddy," the young-so very young-assistant designer murmured with her hair just brushing his neck.

"Because Buddy died a long time ago," he whispered in response, close to her skin.

"You're lying."

And they both knew he was. They both could feel it. In the beat of a heart beneath her palm, and in the nerves which jumped at her presence.

She was healing him. Would probably heal all of him with time, and Syndrome didn't know how to handle that knowledge, except to reject it by force of habit. But still she continued onward, healing the thorns in his soul with a simple, innocent touch. Offering pure love-for that's what it was, he couldn't deny it with her heart connected so closely to his own-while he, Buddy Pine, was on the outside looking in. Hades without a Persephone. All alone and on his own, like he always seemed to be.

But perhaps that could be changed.

"Let's…let's say I do decide to live. To become Buddy Pine once more. What happens then?"

"I don't know."

And there it was again standing before them: the Unknown. It dwarfed the two of them like a ebony tomb, its shadow long and far-reaching. But…somehow he didn't fear it anymore. Not with the echo of her heartbeat at his back, the feel of her skin against his. She'd taken the mask off some time in their conversation and he recognized the brush of her eyelashes which touched his cheek like butterfly wings. It was soft and sweet, so simple to crush or destroy just as they could so easily destroy one another.

But…there was still a chance.

Allowing his trademark smirk to finally emerge, Syndrome let go of the past once and for all, thinking hard before he chose the words he would speak, "in that case…it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Parr."

Her relief was palpable, "Violet, please."

"Violet…" tongue caressing the word like an amethyst on velvet, the redhead in her arms finally accepted her embrace, thumbs caressing the silky smooth hand upon his heart. So very tiny and slim, "I'm Bartholomew Pine, the _Third_. Call me Buddy."

"Oh, I will," she affirmed, laughter bubbling from her lips in a breath of pure relief. And somehow he couldn't help the reflexive exhale, reverberation shaking them both.

And then they both smiled.

"I can't promise I'll change my ways."

"I can't guarantee I won't stop you. But," and taking a deep breath, Violet slowly began words that were only just now being born within her mind. A tentative truce meeting between herself and her responsibility, "I _can_ promise that I'll always be there to meet you. To be with you, one way or another."

And maybe that was enough.

Helping him up, Violet Parr and Buddy Pine exited the lab for her first and last time.

Times would come in the future when they would look back on the decision made that night and the hero and the villain would always wonder what life would have been like if things had gone differently. They would continue to fight and to love and to be torn. Robert Parr would eventually learn of Buddy Pine's existence, but under his daughter's instruction left him relatively alone.

He would never entirely understand her reasons for it, either although Helen could take a stab in the dark if she wanted to.

Violet eventually became a designer in her own right, inheriting both sides of Edna Mode's heritage when the woman decided to retire and simply travel. Supers and villains came and went and eventually 'Echo' became nothing more than a memory as he seemingly disappeared into the woodwork of history. And if the great Vi Parr, clothing aficionada, always seemed to have a new bodyguard at her side no one noted it, despite the trend towards a similar build in each one of them. Nor even cared when she eventually married on of them, a man named James, with strawberry blonde hair and teasing blue eyes.

And it was enough.

FIN

~/~/~

AN:

And so ends the thing that started out as a one-shot (and my first foray into Synlet) and became its own deeply romantic, alternately sappy/angsty hero-villain love story. Whew! –swipes hand across her forehead- I'm glad it's done. But I've gotta admit, it was an adventure to write. Thank you everyone that gave me encouragement and insisted I continue with the story. I'm really glad I got a chance to create this creative piece. (Even if it's more emotional than anything I've ever written before. ^^; ) And curse me for being a romantic-I was going to make this an angsty ending. –shakes finger- It's all you (horribly) wonderful people out there who asked for it. Well, you get what you deserve. ~_^

Also, I wanted to thank Billy Joel (as odd as that sounds) for creating music which has perpetually inspired me to write. As things stand, the music of Billy Joel most sounds like Syndrome is speaking as compared to any other, and so with no ado I'd like to suggest several song selections:

"The Stranger", "Only The Good Die Young", "You May Be Right", "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant", and "And So It Goes."

Also, thank you to all the wonderful people who've created Synlet videos on Youtube-you're literally what kept me focused as I wrote this chapter, particularly when I was struggling with keeping Syndrome and Violet in character.

Cheers.

I'll try and finish Sunny Side Up, and then it's on to Icarus I go. With a little more action and a little less sap. Which'll make for an interesting ride…

Forgive my horrible Haiku skills, btw.


End file.
